in the morningest of the mornings I left my small apartment
like a scampering rodent
after a short night’s sleep.
it was at this time
when the skylight hesitates
between night and day
like a rope dancer between life and death
in the morningest of the mornings
when the skylight hesitates

at a time indeterminate
I took a bus

a strange girl accompanied me I’m not sure if she was
really there
or maybe it was me who ignored her presence

the smell of the wood is exquisite compared to the town
swinish avenues’
I feel so well 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

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
she now has a gleeful smile
just like mine.


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 child
I pretended to sleep.


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

but it was long ago.