In a small tavern,
I sat, weary and worn..
The rain fell outside,
Thunder rumbled and lightning flashed,
In my hand, a bouquet of roses,
Yet she did not come; I am fatigued..
Long minutes passed,
I gather, I subtract, I divide,
I build palaces, I conquer deserts,
I cut through valleys, I babble like a fool..
I travel from pole to pole,
To the farthest sea in a small boat..
I watch the door; she may arrive,
I watch my watch..
I stroke my beard,
I sip my glass,
In the throat of time,
I flow,
While my heart has frozen in my chest
And my soul nearly perished.
I am tired, I am bored,
And the chair has become like a furnace,
As if the vase mocks me,
And the roses have turned to mercury.
Will she come? No! She has not come; I am weary..
My reverie reached my ears,
And distraction has shackled me at the elbow.
At that moment, she sat beside me,
“Forgive me, my love, for I gleam..
I have longed for you and my heart..
For your absence, it has grieved.”
Then weariness collapsed, and the ice melted,
And that small boat arrived in safety,
I kissed her hand..
And I danced with her,
And in her fragrance, I drowned,
I called the waiter,
“Please: two glasses,
And a sign on the door,
That reads ‘Closed.’”
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