(English translation by Pina Piccolo)
A woodpecker pecks at the edges of the world,
will it collapse? you ask me in a troubled tone.
Blurred as we are by the fog
infecting these woods,
I confidently answer: No way!
But the question keeps on echoing inside:
Will it collapse? Will it collapse?
All seems quiet, though
this is where the fence around the hunting
reserve starts
though the planes are flying low
catching up with us
as we push forward searching
for the tree that holds the cosmos
intending to climb it
to your father’s constellation.
Not collapsing yet,
we are accompanied along the path
by the rustle of dry leaves.
Look: a snake has come out of a ditch!
And a rush of greens and reds
is uncovering the wineskin of the world,
this is from where the grieving souls
emerge from with their centuries old sealed lullabies
this is where they come out from to exact their price.
A woodpecker pecks at the edges of the world
spilling drumbeats
Everything is collapsing, let’s run.
But I refrain from saying it and just hug you.