Your image between my fingers

One evening we were walking

by the lake, Mom. The swans

slipped slowly on its surface

in the soft light of the sunset.

The moon reflected its pallor

there and on your tired face.

But you’re no longer here.

The moon runs away, and in

the waves, it gets lost with

your beautiful portrait and

the memory of that night. I

dip my hands in the water:

between my fingers, I hold

and caress your image now.

IRMA KURTI, ITALY – ALBANIA

From “Your image between my fingers – Tu imagen entre mis dedos”,
Independently Poetry, 2023 Chile.