I see through the transparency of my lens
the light unexpectedly falls into darkness
I've been raped of a vision; rapped yet still attracted
to an unfaithful image that scares me.
Now here I am, standing by my window in Marseille
Watching the sister ship of the Lucitania
Take my sister to America
From my bed my fingers search in vain for my binoculars but they are not there.
Three years have passed, mother died and my sister paid me a ticket to New York
The water of the East River spins more turbulently than in Marseille
Sister is off to work; I can't see her but I know she's crossing the Brooklyn Bridge now.
That day she never came back. I stayed in her apartment until they cut the electricity.
My vision adjusted to the dim and I felt more comfortable knowing
Now, finally, nobody could see me.