Good evening, your highness.
How is your sleep now in winter?
When leafless walnut trees show their smooth gray bark,
Effectively when all the trees seem mellow and ill
As if something is missing there,
Where the branches grow from their stem nodes.

Something is breaking there.

Your Highness, I am too young,
Something new still trembles inside me,
Something does not know how to let itself go
Along the road
And opposes its own nature,
I am like a newborn not accustomed yet to resignation,
I would like to succeed even if the odds are against me,
I would like to control the back-and-forth movement of the sun
As if it were a golden pendulum,
And

Then I awake and I am sorry
That I complained
It is winter time and everything seems to grow
And I am happy.

The light breaks into sparkles,
Life is an old habit, your highness,
Rebel sparks fleeing their mother’s eyes,
Like incandescent dust,
A Eucharist from centuries ago.

To be old and white
and not ashamed to walk in the rain with a black umbrella,
to be obviously painted in white
like an old-fashioned mill,

so white that even the white cherry petals are
too heavy for the crown of your head
Such as you look out of place
compared with other people, with the red cars, with the rain
inside children’s nostrils

you keep on walking, wise like a tin toy drummer,
bringing to life the whole orchestra,
waking up those who believed they were awake,
you are the white of the paper
upon which the world wrote a masterpiece
and erased it

More beautiful than this is impossible, I hear you say to me,
when the piano song leaves for afar from my ears.
I too cry, don't you see, it is not only you crying,
the silvery-green rain weaves for me a dress and the unskilled sun
seams it with untrodden grass.

My fingertips are only a shadow, I don't want
to die as long as I am alive,
there is a delta for everything,
for all the crying of those who have souls,
a sunrise for the wings of thin and long water birds,
who take flight below
closer to the river's reflection of the sky.

Today I love myself
and I am lonelier than yesterday and maybe
I am in love with all the lovers in this world,
I value their full moments after they take a share of everything,
form every mirror of this world
where they see themselves,
I can't, I simply cannot breathe any longer, because I am happy.

I am fifteen years old and my name is woman or maybe willow.

and then I gather in a trunk the holy clothes and the holy foods
and I left
somewhere not too far away,
because my road was written in ink,
after I delved in an eye for a piece of time, only at the edge of the eyelid.

today I still live within myself
and it is very hard for me to go away
where the soul is not a queen and the reason does not usurp it

it is too much sun and the moon cries with a scent of death

I have very sad eyes and white hands.
My child will be born happy.

Over the earthen bread the napkin of the sky will fall,
the baptism of my son among the men who, just like me, love
their land and their work, the joy of giving, the beauty of being human,
the tall firs’ grace, the murmuring waters, the living seed within the ground.
Upon the teardrops of ****** pain a song will fall,
that unseen song that was written on a starlit staff.

For us it’s raining too much, too often,
someone gathers all cornflowers and scatters them on our bed.
When I look into my child’s eyes I am smaller and smaller,
I am warmer and warmer and I have a house of my own
with fireplace and toys,
with simple windows that let the clear sky come in entirely
after my child wipes off the steam of his breath.

All those flowers between us and we stay together.
My child plays with my fingers without counting them.
For him they are more and more as he touches them.
Just like me, he was born happy.

today’s pigeons are heavy they carry churches on their backs
they rest on my windowsill when it rains like oiling
and the world anoints to heal its lack of love
i get angry because i cannot make them leave  
they stay as long as they please knowing what i will never know
with their placid eyes in the light of this century
sometimes white-feathered
i reread the bible and my old letters under magnifying lens
my bow-tied memories
cut them as if a deck of cards to see what’s drawn out
it’s amazing nothing changed i grew old sitting at the wooden gate
on a wooden chair in  a life with basil drying under rafters
and grapevines uprooted

tell me what can be found before pain
an upside-down cross between heart liver and stomach
what lies downwards swells like biscuit in milk
and what lies above screams
like Saint Peter would have screamed
upturned cross at the foundation of the church

tell me what survives longer between the four cardinal points
made of living flesh and bluish blood
before pain it is peace and after pain silence
or maybe the opposite
before pain it is the word and after pain only the shadow
motionless unmovable powerless like a flag at half-mast
like sacred banners on the road to the graveyard

let it be yours bighearted man
the rice grain in which I sculpted
a white monastery

( August, 4th,  2014)