November 2012


crouched over a pint of stout

he is haunted by sharp memories of a long lost love

the autumn of his life is gone now, it's winter

the bleak warmth of the pub poorly stuffs the void of her kisses - tropical

sepia pictures of unknown relatives replace a thousand brick-red towers

grayness, for past memories of a crisp Athenian sky

intense and wild

on the other side of the Atlantic

she succumbs to chaos

(informality, exhausting)

in the autumnless territory - not a hint of snow in her jet-black mane - the rainy season is over

and dryness cracks her tan face in a myriad canyons of bygone laughter

for an instant

amid forms, infinite

disctraction, the overwhelming Andes

milk a tear for his blue eyes

tonight / this morning, he turns 76


Jorge Mejia Hernandez