Фермата

Airport hall

She was fading out through an airport hall,
Not thin at all, a bit squat even,
but such a warm figure
dipped in an enormous tenderness,
a kind of tenderness that goes straight to your heart
and bites it
with no remorse.
Love is masochism,
love is Christianity,
a Crucifix,
not always sacrifice,
because sacrifice is not what it is
when it goes with satisfaction.
And then the pain turns into bliss —
blissful was her smile,
thrown through all these shades of people,
stuck in this imaginative airport hall.
Her movements were slow
and for a moment
they were still.
That was the moment when I woke up
with bitterness
of everything I can’t have in this life —
no airports,
no girls,
no destinations.
And then the pain turned into pain
and it wasn’t blissful.