On the cliff,
where dreams live
and the colours are wishes,
there is a little rock
on which I often sit.
Upon me the sea,
made of music
that cannot be heard
but can be seen,
of rivers
where sunsets flow
and dawns
dance with the moon.
Around me
the hands of the wind
tell stories
that I can touch
while the rays of the sun
playing run after each other
and under the cliff
singing nebuale
dress with light
the hair of the sky.

3.1.’15