I

at the crack-of-dawn
while cracks my jaw and my forehead is mired in 
drab thoughts 
when my thoughts begin to stir
in the morningest of the mornings I left my small apartment
in la Marsa
poorly dressed
like a scampering rodent
after a short night’s sleep
it was at this hour
when 5 am ignores
    where the day begins and when the night ends
when the skylight hesitates
     between night and day
like a rope dancer
    between life and death

at a time indeterminate
I took a bus

a strange girl accompanied me I’m not sure if she was
really there
there are in my head
thoughts that I quell
or maybe it was me who ignored her presence

wood’s smell town’s stench
swinish avenues’ cobbled street I want  to leave
this city ignores how to behave
she must not have been a city for very long
exquisite earth
a lull tucks
blathering of the trees
they say things
dither      shuddering antlers 

among the high and stout trunks
my heart
makes snarls and hisses
I question myself
I found back in me
the daredevil and astute
child I used to be
the silent wood is a place where to think
with hands and feet

 

sometimes I felt some guilt about the drowsy girl
and the guilt became worriness
and the worriness attention
she is a cipher to me
she speaks with conundrums

 

a group of young boys was playing drums
battling a tambourine
as if they were going to war
I thought they were our group. My eyes are weak and in the wood it is . I ran to them, and they were probably wondering who I was. 

higher on the plain 
she told me about the mean little girl she used to be
and I say to myself: « oh, she always has been somehow
crazy » 

we took the sun on the momentous belvedere
there was a warm draught of air
I want to explore the place to the hilt
I walk and run to the distant house made of bricks

the strange girl follows me
from listless she became bouncy
she now has a gleeful smile
just like mine

the house is empty and 

II

I prefer to the mountain
the precious woods
the tall trunks
the bulging ground
the oaks’ shuddering antlers 

the whistle of birds I cannot see
remind me of the kisses that my parents gave me
when as a child
I pretended to sleep

III

I think never was I so close to the sun
except once
when I fell in love

but it was long ago

IV