Avenue in October

The deities of dream Take their afternoon stroll down this street Leading to the sea.

This avenue is neither Broad nor beautiful, But the African-born wind rises And leaves something here Akin to the warm And domestic happiness Of those who don’t ask why.

The clouds sketch The outline of the travelers Who discover the waves and pray For their dead children, Or for the ones that never arrived, Like this treeless street In whose shade the dog May recognize its master And know how music Is not solely from the world That sleeps and dreams, Nor from those gods Who stroll through the evening And walk down to the sea Should there be something adrift Even close to This happiness.