the unripe sun near dawn made us all peasants of the boundless blue. and the mist, what can i say of the mist but that they looked like nostalgia escaped from the fissures of dreams of those who were still asleep?

sitting on the balcony, i wait for my soul to echo out the valleys mountains rivers…even if it is for the last time. even if it is immovable. 

it’s early, i know, but hear me out. 

the future requires a kind of credulity. yes, i am untried and brought in from elsewhere and you weren’t expecting my small feet at your doorstep shimmering across your life like a spiderweb,
shaken by an early spring.

hear me out, i won’t go anywhere and will be here to open the light, the shadow and
the pieta locked in a perfect block of untouched marble - for you. let me hold your hand over the flood.