I look at the night,
at its sky, a vast indigo mantle
always so quiet,
so silent, so brilliant
and i think about the hundreds fireflies
who went to die in some star;
i deepen about the streetlights
and their deaths at the break of dawn;
about every marble sculpture
and their everlasting ashes,
their other hands and eyes
(who built the Celestial vault
and the incessants kingdoms)
their words, their empires.
Could the wind, break the destiny of the wounded humans
by the lonely fire of their bones and knives?
Could the Cross, the unique marble
who never sleep alone, bite, nibble
the beauty of time?
What would have the roses said!
with their blood emanate from million innocent hearts;
from other dying roses
praying that love is over.
Always silent, the night.
This… always an ephemeral breath of the existence.
