It is a myth about the circumstances

There is time for the computer prompt,
to end the discomfort.
It could be in London or Egypt,
where we met

Here comes the woman, I say,
and the month is May.
The taxi in London is black
to take us to the Hyde  Park,
where poems are written on napkins
at a restaurant with fountains.

My shirt and jeans look weird.
I have a gray Hemingway-like beard.
Let me introduce a big fan of yours,
a scientist, who talks to robots.
But, today I will read you a poem.
I hope you will say: "I know him!"

We stand out there in the crowd,
maybe crazy, maybe loud, 
lost in the world of desire
without a proper prayer.
Can we be a couple again
without a blame?

It is a myth about circumstances,
and the lack of real romances.
In this city where they play piano
we dance to the oldies Celentano.
Sometimes touching is everything - 
not a fear, but something
like a beginning of all over again,
when happiness  is back from the vain