Winter is over.
I can feel it from the depths
of an empty street, where the crossways
seem all to modulate the ground;
I can feel it from the dusty smell of bay leaves,
because I could not see the birds through them.
They are playing across the gulf
that leads to the Africa people,
glittering more than the sun;
instead I am walking along the noisy chains
of modern life,
what’s the sense behind ?
The mind is alone,
she is facing a mosaic design,
like the ones in Turkish churches,
and seeking a ford to which to flee,
where the certainties fall down,
somehow hit by evidence.
Winter is a dear father to the few,
the quite strange angle to withstand the siege
is not a road bordered with trees,
not a rope that is choking the man.
Well, the birds are freely out of this mourning,
do not suffer from power lust,
do not feel the seasons,
they can see higher, maybe ?
We love the small Sunday cakes,
but in war even crumbs are a poor mirage,
let’s pour the noble wines of France,
the tables are crowded and blazing,
so the mantelpiece with lamb and joy,
aren’t we friends ?
Let’s share the shirts,
our stories of puppets
locked up by Giuseppe’s hands, our maker,
in wooden cages !
We are children forever,
and wolves outside cannot do anything to us;
the world is going on,
no thread reaching out