Boussole

It was perhaps the simple moment of a few tears over dinner.  The fluted wine glasses were almost empty then, asking for more wine.  And soon the wine was gone, asking for more questions.

It was perhaps the way streets meandered into the soft bed of the river while purple neon lights inundated the facade of the museum, in front of which a band played into the early morning.

Or, it was perhaps the loss of that inner compass which takes dreamers astray, into old dreams, into new questions, and into unknown fears, as that compass lead us to that river which never invited passersby for a swim.  Chestnut trees were in blossom, somewhere, but we walked the shores of the river searching for that compass.

The compass was disoriented but never lost.  It was still showing the North, the South, the East and West.  But, the space of an uncompleted poem, it seemed to show direction capriciously – the North was a bit more East; the South was much Northerly than before. A bi-polar, whimsical compass.

It was simple.  Sometimes, not finding the right bubbles in a fluted glass makes it less of a promise and more of an expected surprise. But a Cava wine, no matter how good, will not be accepted en lieu of a bottle of Veuve Cliquot. I learned that when chestnut trees were in bloom, somewhere.

{Date Not Recorded}

Both pictures were taken from the Buda Castle on a misty evening in December. The Danube separates Buda from Pest.

© Vahé Kazandjian, 2013