On January
I know that you can live
not exist,
emerged from a fifth , a bottom, a
out if there is no one ever saw the
.
I know that you can not live there
,
with roots torn by every wind
if not a leaf stirs, not a breath rippling water
looks out upon your living room.
I know that there is no magic filter
od'infusione
that can explain how you s'azzufino
fingers and hair, as your laughter breaks out in his
thanks to the tiny god that you trust,
different from hour to hour, and distrust. I know that you've never
the like - where the - why, no matter
lazily resigned to, the
do not know when or how, lost in an obscure germ
larvae and arborescence.
I know what you grab,
object or hand, pen or ashtrays, burn or if
n'accorge, nor
You realize you are innocent animal
unaware of being a pin and a ruin, a shadow and
a substance, a beam that goes dark.
I know that you can live in
fuochetto straw emulation
without the sign stamped on your forehead disproportions
from Who would you were ... and if they repented.
Now
exit to the terrace, the flowers, shake
the skeleton of the Christmas tree,
accompanies you mute the tape,
go back in the mirror you're sorry,
you thrown to the floor, peels off the rag
from the floor in the footsteps of the intruders.
were many and most unpresentable
least of all because the others talk, I
, mouth closed.
(E. Montale)
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