I want you to knowone thing.You know how this is:if I lookat the crystal moon, at the red branchof the slow autumn at my window,if I touchnear the firethe impalpable ashor the wrinkled body of the log,everything carries me to you,as if everything that exists:aromas, light, metals,were little boats that sailtoward those isles of yours that wait for me. Well, now,if little by little you stop
