In the soccer field on the edge of our town
She must be waiting for me,
Leaning on a crooked goal post,
Studying the children’s match in progress under the misty raindrops,
With a wave for the flock of blue pigeons
That suddenly spills out of the monastery’s rooftop.
Her eyes are smiling;
Her lips are grieving;
Her tiny hands are clutching and crushing
The green grass blades;
The glowing red eye on the shoulder of twilight
Is slipping away, disappearing.
Go home, my dear girl!
The bells beckon you from the town.
I, however, shall keep puffing away
The cheroots my mother sent me from back home.