Do you ever wish for something delicate,
Something yielding, yet exact,
Warm, yet encompassing? The idea
Follows you, then , constantly, situating itself
At your side, accompanying every step,
Imitating your gestures, mimicking your voice.
It knows you, resembles you, repeats your words,
Translating them patiently into the idiom of desire.
The words were new, yet already familiar,
As if they had been uttered every single day of your life,
As if, in fact you had memorized them,
Or written them into a code which you could hide
And bring out at will, under your sleeve,
To deliver them as a speech,
Whenever needed. But now and then
They retreat from you, retreat like a child playing a secret game
The point of which is known only to herself.
A cloud, it seems, passes by and she jumps onto it,
Sailing away into the kind blue mist.
How gentle is the cloud, the child, the mist.