Behind her back the black and white cat
crossed the street - and did she know it -
in the oldest streets of the oldest city
like a Gnostic ghost made of noble slit
from the darkest sea that is slowly covered
by the humble dust of their common centuries.
As she walked away, the curtain of winter winds
was drawn behind her shoulders
the dusk view of a fortress made
of words and bones and its reflection seen
in the ancient stones surrounding…
Up above, where the hills cushion its past,
the city’s walls and slippery walkways
stand, inviting her to prolong the windy walk
while the powdery atmosphere seeps in
and the living ink of the sea responds
like something that inhabits her.
There, she can be seen, until another curtain
protects the sight, the mystic sign,
the ancient cemetery, a poem of Rumi.

There is not even a keyhole
                            through which one could see
           just a black and white cat
and in her mind,             the memory of music,
of silk on legs,                 of singing breaths
the taste of a rare gold liqueur:
a moment of rest, of sweetness unshared;
until rain begins to fall and the old
portal closes, beyond her back.
The white graves are enchantment:
oh, to dance - shoulder blades shining -
alive, and under her feet, sugar tombstones.