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I awaited a word from the water.

It came not.

Well, then what?

I searched for a thought and asked fish;

They knew no more than me.

Well, then why am I here?

I took comfort in the green nostalgia,

But once the wind stopped,

The sounds dissolved,

And so the ephemeral azbuka

Has faded

From the mirror of my writing hand.

Well, then when will the word appear?

I take my leave of a tear,

And ask no further remedy

  I am alive in the Dolomites,

Without  words.

I love people and dogs,

I love drooping birch branches

Of your hair,

That I swear caught fire

From a candelabrum of Scriabin

On the piano of Ledro Lake –

I thank you, water, for all the fears,

Which your green dimples concealed.