***
My heart hammers so hard
when I imagine you walking the streets
we walked together,
I still don’t know how much the gift
of freedom and trust
can cost the giver –
incapable of doing anything except thinking of you,
I remain in the books
piled around me on the floor.
I stare abstractedly into the pages,
at the lives and loves of characters and cities
I will probably never visit
together with you.
Waiting with all my senses for a light sound of your message,
or your letter,
that would invite me to – let’ say –
‘Le Sacre du Printemps’,
the explosive force of spring:
we would soak in the pounding rhythms
of Igor Stravinsky,
sink in the violent Nejinsky’s moves,
we would go deep to the essential forces of Earth,
we ‘d swim in the convulsions of nature,
my heart would dance down the sollar plexus,
I’d grip your hand so tightly
as Dyagilev would do to Anna Pavlova
after the curtain would fall …