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George Freek

The Night Café

after Liu Yong


I sit in a small café,

as night slowly arrives.

A melancholy moon

looks down on me.

I sit in black shadows

which quiver like the strings 

of a blue guitar.

Dead leaves fall from trees.

I sit alone, where old men

and old women eat

biscuits dipped in tea.

They don’t look at me.

They don’t stare at the

moon. They don’t think

of what’s to come.

As I leave, the wind blows

my hat down the street.

It was old and worn.

I feel too indifferent to run.

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