It was a voyage through the fog.
I sat in an empty ship bar,
He drank his coffee, He leafed through a novel;
It was quiet, as a balloon,
and a fixed number of bottles gleamed,
without attracting the gaze.
The ship floated in the fog. The mist was white.
In turn, who was also white
vessel (cm. law of displacement bodies)
in the milk seemed to have pleased chalk,
and the only black thing was
coffee, While I was drinking.
The sea was not visible. The whitish haze,
swaddled from all sides have, absurd
to think, that the ship is going to land –
if at all, it was a vessel,
rather than a clot of fog, like I poured
who in the milk of white.
1969 – 1970