It's quiet here—except for a squeaking stroller

It’s quiet here—except for a squeaking stroller.

A courtyard, a couple of trees and benches.

The air is turning pale as though the colors

are leaving the sky and the facades of buildings.

From all sides the shadows are emerging—

flittering, dancing . . . “Do you see it? Crazy!

These butterflies,” he says, “came so early,

never before arrived at this time, never ever.”

Wait for an answer. As in the highlands,

utterances emerge hollow and unclear

to an occasional passerby, to a stranger,

yet to locals they seem to be full of meaning.

As in a stutterer’s speech the pauses are too lengthy

and the syllables have a slightly distorted angle.

Those who are not totally intimidated

can’t be deceived by swank and feigned bravado.

It takes a lot of efforts to bring together

to this courtyard—which is truly a wasteland—

those who will become its permanent fixture,

first as a real guide and, later on, as an ethereal.