Pausing at the foot of a sycamore,
Where the tall grasses bend under my feet
And their tower-like greatness lies
there slashed from the storm,
I might feel like a weeping giaour,
Who hid his limped eyes and shamed returned,
Back to some holy spot he remembered most in his heart
And there stood in the swift freshness of the storm
With head raised, and face quivering,
Feeling the sharp rain on his lips
Gray from the wind and rain beating through the twilight.
Infidel, I, who am standing here…..
And now you smooth the hollowness out of life with your lips!
Even as I stand with you at the foot of the sycamore,
I watch the parapeted streaming glide swiftly overhead and away,
Then softly lights the wind between laden leaves,
Sending a shower of scintillating drops to the ground.
If I lift upon my toes and look over your shoulder,
I can see the giant arms drooping wistfully,
The sky the color of fleur-de-lys dripping with dew,
And shadows of silver down, silver against the sycamore,
Giantly in its tender fragility.

Poetry by Eleonora