Michelangelo, every so often
we are together again on board the boat
that slipped down the flowing Amu Darya,
as with our teeth we cracked open
black sunflower seeds.
We were surrounded by ropes, oil drums,
and the bundles of gypsy women piled
in front of a pink sidecar.
All the while, sailors with long poles
kept us clear of the sandbanks.
Sitting on the side of the boat,
not knowing where it would take us,
we gazed upon the river’s watery ribbon
disappearing, in the far distance,
into the haze of a pale, pale mist
that made you think
the voyage would end at Ferrara.
Tonino Guerra, A Pale, Pale Mist
