The space in the forest
A leaf falls, a feather falls
from the slender bones of the forest
a she-wolf unevenly strides
towards the heavy breath of the pack.
There is neither sound nor blow
along pit-scarred street.
Reforming as unmoved rock
into the living flow of the water
reacting as do the trees
to the perturbing winds,
dancing like madmen
to the tragedy of gates
and on broken glasses
to love or not love ourselves
in the redeeming sunrises,
without looking back,
sweating and plowing ahead.
Then the hand-hiding dark,
with dream’s soliloquy
while the running water laps.
Here is the bared skin of the face
a gash of interrupted sky
on a pause of a olive branch
no more fragile, tough soul,
into the stubborn dawn of the day.
How I feel into the tremor of a flower
how I feel into the smile of a beak
how I feel into the meadow’s hands!
Lying, supine and prone,
happy and a slightly dirty too.
Translated by Valeria Cipolli and Laura Chalar
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