A good friend

I took chess classes
from Death herself.
She is a good friend,
doesn’t speak much and doesn’t forget.

If you see her crossing the fields on the hill’s top
or drinking coffee in a coffee shop
or waiting for the tram at the stop
say hello and tell her – hi, sister -,

she will shake her bag full of coins
and her bowed head that is merely in sight
– not now – she will whisper – i am busy -;
the knucklebones and a parchment in hand.

I smile, usually, and flatter myself
that i am safe from the roll of the dice
just because i confine that thought
into this match that is put on hold.

Translated by:  L.128