Throw a Stone, You’ll Hit Something Ancient

It seems that here,
Beneath insect’s racket
and olive’s scent,
I breath the air
meant for your lungs.

For a cosmopolitan
so rootless as I,
It is but another flavour
on a vague palette,
But for you, this is all.

For you, this is the
taste of the whole world;
Here the centuries gather
to throw themselves
beneath your tender feet.

It seems that here
I breathe the air
meant for your lungs,
And taste your love
on my lips.

Throw A Stone

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