No sooner had I left A.
Than I started doubting its existence:
Its streets and noisy crowds;
Its famous all-night cafés and prisons.
 
It was dinnertime. The bakeries were closing:
Their shelves empty and white with flour.
The grocers were lowering their iron grilles.
A lovely young woman was buying the last casaba melon.
 
Even the back alley where I was born
Blurs, dims … O rooftops!
Armadas of bedsheets and shirts
In the blustery, crimson dusk …
 
B. at which I am destined
To arrive by and by
Doesn’t exist now. Hurriedly
They’re building it for my arrival,
 
And on that day it will be ready:
Its streets and noisy crowds …
Even the schoolhouse where I first
Forged my father’s signature …
 
Knowing that on the day
Of my departure
It will vanish forever
Just as A. did.