From time to time
a few wan-looking knights
with worn-out armour can be seen/ old
but still robust/ exhausted/ yet
undefeated/ gazing
from some street corner.

While the April rain
lingers like a blessing
since with thirty degrees at night
it’s hard to sleep/ dream/ compose
songs that talk about the soul/
doves or coloured birds
crossing your childhood’s sky.

From time to time
old knights can be seen on the city’s
street corners/ weary-eyed
but still alive/ their clothing
frayed/ yet dignified/
their hearts full of holes
and questions/ watching the sky
go tumbling, looking on terrified
from the four cardinal points
of confusion.

Don’t discuss it/ don’t
cast doubts on it/ that I
saw them last night/ four seconds
away from my face and yours/ while
you slept and I blindly
watched over your sleep/ when you said
“So you were dreaming
of medieval knights watching us”
“Yes,” I answered, “and it’s incredible
how tired they were/
poor old men, so dignified
and so so beautiful.”