ITINERARY

A big, black bird cleaves the air.
Not a single branch answers its wingbeat.
Its majestic silhouette flies over
And, like a doomed wish, disappears.

Light at the zenith of midday
points its route and sets its fly.
Meanwhile, on the humid soil
the snake stretches towards its nest.

Climbs the night extinct igneous rocks,
and the stars paid homage to the abyss.
In the core of the woods
an undulating whisper, yellow, green,
travels through the leaves
turning the leafmould into an endless butterfly.

With the last ray of light,
emerging from the horizon,
the splendid wings of the black bird
cleave the air in its return, again.
Its cry resounds in the void.

SEASONS

It is good for the soul
to feel in autumn a sunny day,
and in the absence of wind
watch the silent mulching of ochre leaves.

It is good for the soul
to cup with both hands
the crispy, virgin snow
with the first ray of sun.

It is good for the soul
to blow the pollen
and see it carried away
by wind.

It is good for the soul
to sense one's body hot,
wrapped with a cloak of sweat
in the clear summer night.

As it is good, too, for the soul
to fell the warmth of your skin,
to cup with both hands your face,
to breathe a sigh,
to sense you in me,
at anytime.
At the time of quiet fall,
when snow tops the window's sill,
as the scent of blossoms runs through,
or our bodies are bathed with sweat.
And we seem not to know
what season rules the skies
outside us.

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