When the wind passes through your clay hair,
you clear out, between leaves and twigs,
the faded flowers and the pilgrim
mantis. Order has a value of
rebirth, you repeat me.
Eggs are not been
laid yet, but
you’re
waiting, a few days,
as soon as cherry trees will be
in bloom. Swallows are not home yet,
the usual homeless opportunists.
We extend our
gaze at
midday, you
half-close your eyelids
and snuff the air, with the tip of
the nose we touch each other and smile.
It’s not that words are gifted without anything in return.
Every little thought has a cost in hours-sleep.
Cultivating the vision requires fresh,
source water. The roots in search
of consolation dig into the dry
sea of the land, meet
unearthed relics of
those who were
here,
in advance,
time on time, waiting
for that future that now has become
stone and moss. Shamanic presences and
silence attempts: we are the next animals to have wings

Translated by Eleonora Matarrese