The Balcony

In Kurort-Varna, I look from the balcony 
        of the Balkan-Tourist:
the road, trees,
        beyond them sand,
beyond that must be sea and sky-
no,
        neither sea nor sky,
beyond the sand is simply light, 
        no end of light . . .
And this smell of roses in the air 
burns the nostrils.
I don't see any roses,
but I can tell from the scent
they're all enormous,
        all very red . . .
The Polish tourists flock down to the beach,
blond, pink, half-naked . . .
A swallow spins overhead: 
black wings, white breast.
He's not in the least like a bee,
but he's like a bee just the same.
Now you see him, now you don't 
as he plunges and soars, giddy 
        with his own song . . .
Cucumber soup in a blue bowl. 
They brought a cheese pita 
—it's as if I'm in Istanbul—
they brought a cheese pita
with sesame seeds, soft and steaming . . . 
This summer day in Varna,
all big talk aside,
even for a very sick, very exiled poet 
this happiness to be alive.