The one
opening this
book he risks great:
from his feet roots could
sprout, from his hands fronds
of hornbeam or strawberry tree.
He could meet himself, in a dream,
or wake up with the duty to discern between
opportunity and truth, at his disadvantage.
Nature has nothing good, it operates
and passes out, it renews in the
blood of defeated. We are
nerves and feelings that
a light breath can
confuse, or the shadow of
a cloud hide. Human nature is
not the rock, it’s the rustle of
a Goldfinch’s flight

Translated by Eleonora Matarrese