(English translation by Pina Piccolo)
I walk along cobbled streets
shrouded in ordinary ramblings,
you appear there on the ledge of the sky
hanging like a star about to fall,
your evanescent face trembling and screaming
as you sway like tall trees
in early winter winds.
To many, you are just some crazy fool
a parenthetical scream as they shop
enjoy their happy hour, scroll their smartphone,
some curious passer-by stands there waiting to see
if you’ll inscribe a period on the pavement.
In my eyes, though, you seem to emerge
from a removed mythological time
now completely unknown to yourself:
like those Mexican voladores
rising sixty feet above the ground
on a wooden pole praying for rain,
so tonight you prepare your ritual
letting your demand for dignity rise.