The province  hushes, the doors shut
with my soul’s accordion, hark
the twilight drains out like salt, the salt
on eucalyptus bark and the shoulders of loaders in harbor.

The flies of memory murmur the glory,
together with the wait,
the children regurgitate it in classrooms.

May mothers rot!

Who with the spoons of insanity sate
them of forefathers who freely wrote,
on water, on sand and slate.

But I who was born to elsewhere decline,
in tongue, as says my  old friend,
am pining, and ruined by a renaissance line:
in Durrës, ‘only sunset is grand’ - superb.