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Poem

My hand touched warm water,
yet all in life seemed so absurd.
I'd gone to sleep, forgotten the power
the absolute privilege..
to the spoken word.    

"Where do our friends go" I asked Giorgia Boscolo
"when wake of your gondola reaches the sea?"
My gondoliera answered naught but a wink  
mirroring ripples in a watery dream.

A sudden fatigue washed the day,
rested my sight away.
To mountains gilded in golden sun
where farewells are never long.

"Can you stay" said a sweet voice
to whom I was familiar
as a child
"of course" I replied.

Looked upon a face, kind features 
of a friend I'd known 
yet never the toll to be paid..
I miss you still my ice and storm.  

'Was a little bird silenced and shot.
In my dreams, the bird still flies
even if the world cares naught..
even in nightmare' skies  
            my bird lives.

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