On the Train to Cascais
on the train to Cascais
you saw the most beautiful girl.
with olive skin
and round breasts
(just like Ornella Muti’s)
wearing a T-shirt
by Dolce & Gabbana,
poised like St. Theresa of Avila
contemplating that spear
about to pierce her chest
etc.
she must have been put off
by the Wittgenstein’s biography
in your hands, for she suddenly
sprung up and exited
in Estoril,
as you continued to Cascais
with the sad realisation
that you’d just missed
the woman of your life
(or somebody else’s):
an Atlantean as beautiful
as the body of her slippery language,
juicy and rustling
like the samba
you heard that summer
on the lake of Bohinj
when you were eighteen.
so what choice did you have,
but to continue reading that damn book
bitter in the knowledge
that the limits of your language
are indeed the limits of your world
that is the case;
much like this one
whereof you wouldn’t want to be silent;
not even in death.