I'm cold.
Even if it's summer and the Sun is out,
even if the orchard's trees are full of life.
Their sprinkled shadows are impressive, majestic
over the mowed grass on the affectionate field.
They are waiting patiently for their fruits to ripe,
showing their brave branches like in a play,
as in a prayer to the almighty golden sun,
some more pious and too modest.
Me... just a small second-hand admirer
of the round, glassy porcelain crops,
I was listening to the cheery birds humming.
I'm cold.
Even if the trees are wise and quiet,
in perfectly equal rows they are aligned.
I was watching the green grass as a soft blanket,
shy and barefoot, then I stepped.
Even if above all, that golden globe
shines imposing and then turns into light orange,
he thrones over the thick grass of the hill,
with dew's drops that sparkles in the shadow.
I'm cold.
Even though the lake of a calm, sober blue
provokes me jealousy for its balance,
cause the divine melody of the quiet morning
calls me to participate to that chromotherapy,
asking to give up on the idea of nostalgic lethargy,
not to be defeated... but to write more poetry.