when father was dead
in his large enough coffin
a pale blue ribbon tied his temples
otherwise he seemed asleep
the sky was clear but I did not look upwards
I searched in his black wallet
found an icon a few notes and figures
about building a road

father was a man of numbers and calculated windings
usually I refused to play chess with him
he said that it was his dream
I was locking myself in my room without keys
he was setting the chess table
always giving me the white pieces and many advantages
teaching me that corner towers can attack altogether
and that a good defense means to push forward
I was not listening everything was in vain
dice were funnier somehow
they seemed to roll easily beside my will

those days I believed that life was very serious
a kind of order where chess was a surfeit
boring tiresome futile effort for leisure time
I just liked that sound of pieces popping each other
when I gathered them at the end of the game
white bishops had a black head
black bishops had a white point

it was a hot day
silence melting words
my eyes wide opened looking through a lens
so cloudy so clear
father smiling in his coffin
his front clasped by a blue ribbon


Categories: My Poems in 2011 | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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