Beside small terraces perched
close to the roofs
some old colonial houses
are hoarding in the back
little gems of walled-in gardens
as if there strangely translated
from another world and a different age
and also born from within a long, long-gone gap
in between the double flute that makes a wedge
and the breath of Pan and his melancholic tune,
sulking after keen-eyed Syrinx
who stabbed him deeper—
unlike any other nymph—
when women, malleable to love
like the air to approaching music,
still carried in them springs
and even knowing fountains—
like the very one they had
in that little backyard garden
to which you came
to have a little lunch
and where only very few guests
venture out of broad daylight
to strike aglow
an evanescent talk
on their lives’ quick canvas
with an impromptu brush—
all the while the shaded ground
rests covered in broad magnolia leaves.
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