Winter

Shining sun has already gone away to memories, 
a cold wind whispers about a snow,
early winter always with connotations of end-of-live examinations
(here everyone is a student).
Near & distant mountains shimmering from a distant comrade' south message,
where he remembering a poem by an Italian poet:

 "Stooping over her things
 on the beach
 with something maternal,
 she wore a white bikini 
etc."

I reading the words,
obediently breathing in that heat' smell,
looking patiently at that pretty arse dressed in white bikini,
perhaps too lean than Botticelli would prefer.

I send the bikini to Hell,
as a falshood  imposes itself by word,
I send these words to Hell,
and flying into the hole between...
Between right and left half of that arse...
Between "yes" and "no"...
Between word and silence...
Between winter and summer.
I'm flying having forgotten
that beach,
that arse,
that Botticelli,
that dog raising it's head high,
that distances,
and that distant comrade...
I know only myself.

Could it be the snow?
Or could it be the person who walked in the snow?
I can only guess.