Mushroom

the girl walks down the stairs

so tired she is, so tired she is

the nights are unkind

to pretty girls

the night’s creatures like her a lot, a lot

 Today it’s just too gray. Lisbon with rain is a really slippy place, yet its damp and dampness is good for poetry…

The countess rides like a man, people say. She’s a better hunter than the count himself. She leaves the palace early in the morning, she takes her dogs and two servants with her. When it’s not a good day for hunting she wanders through the woods. Sometimes she stops by the creek and bathes in the icy cold waters, naked. One of the servants holds her clothes and rifle. The other sits by his feet and gently, with his mouth, releases his partner from the sensual tension the countess provokes.

Cyan dreams,

Is it a fluid? No…

Dreams are untouchable and Cyan is just a colour…

She closes the book, she opens the round window to smell the salted see.

She doesn’t believe in that strange poetry of dreams and colours.

Her friend lies sleeping, a seagull stands in the window and cries.

A baby or a cat echoes inside the cabinet.