An old Christmas-tree – light green – with the cotton balls –
by Lela Samniashvili
Scattered on it – at the end of the May – hurryingly -
I’ve brought so near to my face: The Earth.
Just few more minutes and my left cheek
passes the Sun. The airplane is above the city now.
The Blues is in the air, while on the ground –
On the square with the ”French Oaks” – the African rhythm
is thundering voiceless. “Why do the switchings
of the road lights sound so sad? -
I’m asking you - in the midday café
full of student smiles, where we still sit –
You and me – for so many hours –
Asking each other to get up and leave:
“You.” “No, you- first.” The paper cup looks up embarrassed –
Tall and empty of our double hot chocolate –
And the left-overs of the disappeared cheese-cake –
still looking sweet – the paper plate and spoon.
At last we go again together. Or, possibly –
We are still there – a Mexican waiter gets impassionate
and takes the cup from table. Fortunately –
we can not check that version from this height.