Bor Hotel

No way you can sleep nights in Varna,
no way you can sleep:
for the wealth of stars
so close and brilliant,
for the rustle of dead waves on the sand,
of salty weeds
with their pearly shells
and pebbles,
for the sound of a motorboat throbbing like a heart at sea,
for the memories filling my room,
coming from Istanbul,
                passing through the Bosporus,
                       and filling my room,
some with green eyes,
some in handcuffs
or holding a handkerchief—
the handkerchief smells of lavender.
No way you can sleep in Varna, my love, 
in Varna at the Bor Hotel.

                                                      2 June 1957