Beautiful Stranger
Like a rusty cross that children broke while playing in the graveyard,
like a song without words that old blind women softly hum,
like the squeaking of a bridge under the feet of foreign soldiers,
like a memory forgotten, like a dream that fades away –
that’s how triste I feel when you are kissed by total strangers,
that’s how triste I feel when you undress but not for me.
Like a hall where portraits hang of Russian tyrants, gods and preachers,
like a Himalayan kingdom torn by madness and by war,
like the scent of French perfume left in a room where lovers quarreled,
like the silence in a church where virgins prayed, where virgins sinned –
that’s how triste I feel when distant winds caress your body,
that’s how triste I feel when your ship sails to distant shores.
Like a widow who is begging that the sea return her lover,
like the voice of a piano in a bar where no one laughs,
like the branches of a tree whose only friends are forest fires,
like the basement of a home where poets die of too much wine –
that’s how triste I feel when you wake up in strangers’ bedrooms,
that’s how triste I feel, my lovely, that’s how triste I feel.
