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Coffee houses - Italian, American, romantic jaunty cafes and simple
French café, café 'ink' – oh, dwellings of airy souls!
Café where people live, for no any other place to live for them.

Millions of strokes and passages conceal themselves inside of these café-towers:
Towards, along them so many bodies rush, leaving the smoke of cigars on the walls of the tunnels.

Café-tower consists of bodies, sinewy and tender, impetuous and smooth like satin ribbon.
Oh, if only once these chords could cross! Alas.

This coffee cup under my fingers, vibrating with its hospitality, small and open like a shell. I go further. Further and further upright the vertical mines, where nymphs and butterflies are singing their songs by silver and lunar voices.

I see there Maria Magdalena and Beatrice, two girls are playing catch – they vindicate reclaimless ones and they awake.