by Alessandro Spinazzi
Every day
i wait for mail
from far away
messages without words
sometimes come to me
brought by the wind
by a bird
by an immovable tree
even an unpleasant
neighbour
now and again has a light
in his eyes
and opens up vulnerable
abysses
that speak
getting out of bed
in the morning
may seem like the beginning
of a catastrophe
but those whispers
in the dark
from an ancient incomprehensible
language
promise beautiful
things.