The heat made us talk
of the weather
and he asked me
of the colours of the leaves
of the morning light
in that season of the year
of the sea waves
we could faintly hear

And the sun
what about the sun
he asked

Fuzzy and blurry his memories
for the long time gone by

I patiently offered him
details and descriptions
of the objects and things
that one after the other
he mentioned
veiled his voice
by a quite nostalgia

I don’t fear death
he said unexpectedly
when I’m dead
I’ll get back to see
again

@ Maria Miraglia