Somewhere across the water a room is speaking.
A conversant several steeped in tradition expressing
such thoughts, so beautiful, floating thoughts like Benjamin
contemplating arcades or what still lives in burnished worlds.
Somewhere here far from water,
I listen to liquid hieroglyphs sounding
from rooms of time filled with great feeling.
I hear words echoing off the lustrous surfaces
of a piano keeping its memories cushioned
between the dampers of keys where fingers
often touch old moments, unlocking Schumann.
My breath is staggered by the distance
from those spirits who speak as poems.
How could I dare even one written stanza
when I don't know the language of candles?
A young professor there, his eyes are like the sea.
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