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First Line: On the avenue's asphalt the moon makes a lake
Last Line: If no one's waiting, there's no point in that.


On the avenue's asphalt the moon makes a lake
of silence; my friend is recalling the past.
In those days, for him, a chance meeting sufficed
and he wouldn't be lonely. Watching the moon,
he'd breathe the night in. But fresher the scent
of the woman he'd met, of the brief romance
on precarious stairs. The comfortable room
and the sudden desire to live there forever—
they'd fatten his heart. Then, in the moonlight,
with great dazed strides he'd go home, contented.

In those days he kept himself company well.
He'd wake in the morning and jump out of bed,
finding his body still there and his thoughts.
He used to like going for walks in the rain
or the sun, enjoying the spectacle of streets
and talking to people he met. He believed
he could start, if he wanted, a new line of work
with every new morning, till the end of his days.
And after a hard day, he'd sit there and smoke.
His most powerful pleasure was being alone.

My friend's gotten older, he'd like for his house
to mean more than it does, he'd like to go out
and stop on the street to look at the moon,
and on the way back encounter a woman,
submissive and calm, patiently waiting.
My friend's gotten older, he isn't enough
for himself anymore. Always the same passersby,
the same rain, the same sun, and morning's a desert.
There's no point in working. And walking in moonlight,
if no one's waiting, there's no point in that.





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