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Two players. One mystery.

Over the table bed

of green baize,

under a multi-oil-lamp


you were my opponent.

Not wearing a classic tuxedo,

but performing trick shots

of best pool players,

under suspended mirrors –

the eyes of the observers –

reflecting the dazzling fox-trot

of the porcelain balls

that you were sending directly

to the craters of the moon –

were you my opponent?

In a stunning, full-length black confidence,

you kept narrating the game,

to the right and left were clouds

of sweet incense,


a large collection of Fabergé eggs

stood still,

the furniture made of birch

judged us – in jeans,

the turquoise walls were set off

by life-sized caryatids,

the ghosts of pointe-shoes

polished the parquet

in front of the reclining marble cupids –

the grandeur of my feeling

got softened by the presence of the two players-

me and you,

over the table bed,

in a game of vital importance.