Here is coming for me the silence once more,
as a bastard brother that never forgets.
It returns full of words and memories
hirsute of fragrances that have lost
their essence and their form,
of oblivion fibers,
of iniquities and spoliations
waving into the wind as remains of radioactive skin
after the most despicable annihilation,
after the muteness of barbarism.
Its inaudible notes stain some sunsets,
some dawns,
some strayed bodies in a time irretrievable
to itself.
What will become of you?, it inquires shaking
the rattle of an uncertain destiny,
what will become of you?
It waves the whip of the deepest scars,
it brings them to my table with the taste
of bread and the freshly foamed milk,
then it yields,
then it forgives,
and in its silence of most pristine
silence
it retreats leaving behind the crumbs of some faint
sweetness, flapping
an ancient yearning of peace
and quietness that tempers the untarnished
waters of the soul
that summons it, that seeks for it,
that calls for paying the price
of its everlasting silence.
