it was Sunday; I was sitting at the window on the twelfth floor
the book in my hand
the distant sky
I looked outside of my window:
the city was disappearing
disappearing into the clouds
on the horizon

on the river crossing the city
a boat was drifting
slowly drifting away
behind, white traces
extraordinarily loud... at that time,
it was early summer and there was no rain
I was in a foreign land
floating
and floating in the limpid existence
of you