The verdure of pool cloth.
A billiard-ball.
A voice that whispers:
Our last August,
Malta'¦
The lilac asphalt hot, -
It failed to alter
The LaValetta's outline
To a scrawl.

As if a masterpiece by Faberge,
St. John stood elegant,
A gray cathedral
Serenely risen,
Strictly polyhedral, -
A giant's non-obliging negligee.

Soft the grigale's whiff,
The hands entwined,
In happy state -
No wine, but ever malty,
We laughed,
While violins by omniscient Vivaldi
Were sending omens'¦
Who kept them in mind?

In the pool-room
Ruled by the void and cold,
My yesterwife,
Today a bitter widow;
But someone,
Whispering mysterious Ido,
Brings regularly flowers red and gold.

Speaking to you from ornamental pots,
Sending his warmth of heart from slender vases,
His lips expressed by petals.
The oasis,
Where you stand with a cue,
Your golden rod.

Let us put off our album of the past, -
We lived,
Not seeing the possible withdrawal+
How beautiful you are!
It's my avowal,
A message from afar
To say
My love still lasts.

Let loose the marvel of your golden hair,
And you will see
The table verdure smile at
The axis optical will,
While the whole world silent,
Run your
Eye-cue-ball
And beyond.
Look,
There

A team of yellow ones!
Aggressive, red,
I'm ready to disperse them on the table.
Just make a stroke!
You stroke me.
Now I'm able
To live again.
Let them think of me dead.

Feeling your pain,
In a strange somersault
Out of the blue,
Along with sounds of alto
Again appear
Last August,
We,
And Malta'¦
A carom on the table,
I'm here.
Just call.

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