At a high place
a large glass pane shakes noisily.
Uttering a groan from time to time,
a wind is raging outside.
There, over the reed plain
and near the estuary, it must be terrible,
but the smoke, pent up on the horizon, doesn't move.
The world below looks mysteriously quiet.
Only, amid the crowded roofs
there's a patch of grassland showing a bit of its ruddy skin
with a dog in it.
He's too far, and sad,
but probably he's supposed to chase a rubber ball or something thrown to him.
I've just seen him
make a leap as cute
as love itself,
run out from the shadow of the house,