poem for an unknown girl
She cries in the street not far from my table
And the small trees quiver in Madrid's white light.
No hand maidens here to stretch and hide her sorrow,
Only her own hands can pretend to ward off the sun.
I observe her slow movements until she has gone,
But taken by the street, and by the implacable sun,
She is no less taken by me. Three vampires
Robbing her of colour, sense and form. What a poor state:
That the nature of my act - that of compassion
Turned into the urge to create - is as violent a thief
As the unforgiving sun on a sorry heart.
And though I falter, though I hope, she will not come back.
I am left alone with a sobering thought
That we are all like mirrors, not flat for vanity,
But like those that in the halls of our holidays
Are curved, and make us look like dwarves, or tall.