When the black curtain goes down
on the words I would like to say
and get tangled on the tongue,
there is not only lack of voice,
there is oxygen rarefaction, there is a scream
which restricts the living space.
When the flamingo holds its head
in the flickering light of sunset
an imperceptible barrier is drawn
in front of the traveler’s journey,
and it isn’t explained the wind of melancholy
that suddenly blows over the lagoon.
When the action ended in the evening
and aspires to the quiet of sleep,
a sluggish journey often begins
among the misty mists of the mind
that gets stuck in the reverberations of eros.
And on the indefinable threshold of darkness
passion and pain become accomplice.
It is not allowed to give up now
to regenerating verbal hygiene.
If there are no mourning tears
you cannot start talking again.
Then, you will find the right way to do it.
English translation by Claudia Piccinno