Leo Robba, 2004
One Cigarrette
No smoke without you, my fire.
After you left,
your cigarette glowed in my ashtray
and sent up a long thread of such quiet grey
I smiled to wonder who would believe its signal
of so much love. One cigarette
in the non-smoker’s tray.
As the last spire
trembles up, a sudden draught
blows it winding into my face.
Is it smell, is it taste?
You are here again, and I am drunk on your tobacco lips.
Out with the light.
Let the smoke lie back in the dark.
Till I hear the very ash
sigh down among the flowers of brass
I’ll breathe, and long past midnight, your last kiss.
No smoke without you, my fire.
After you left,
your cigarette glowed in my ashtray
and sent up a long thread of such quiet grey
I smiled to wonder who would believe its signal
of so much love. One cigarette
in the non-smoker’s tray.
As the last spire
trembles up, a sudden draught
blows it winding into my face.
Is it smell, is it taste?
You are here again, and I am drunk on your tobacco lips.
Out with the light.
Let the smoke lie back in the dark.
Till I hear the very ash
sigh down among the flowers of brass
I’ll breathe, and long past midnight, your last kiss.
Edwin Morgan
Um Cigarro
Nenhuma fumaça sem você, meu fogo.
Depois que saíste,
teu cigarro ardeu em meu cinzeiro
e enviou um longo fio de tão quieto cinza
que sorri ao pensar quem o suporia um sinal
de tanto amor. Um cigarro
na salva do não fumante.
Enquanto a última espiral
tremeluzia, um trago súbito
soprou-a girando em meu rosto.
É cheiro, é sabor?
Você está aqui de novo, e me embriago em teus lábios de fumo.
Fora com a luz.
Deixa a fumaça deitar-se no escuro.
Até eu ouvir a cinza mesma
suspirar entre as folhas de bronze
vou aspirar, e muito além da meia-noite, teu último beijo.
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