while we wait
While we wait.
Late October, it has been raining; now it has stopped
The landscape is green, the air mild and gentle
But there is no jubilation.
No flowers grow.
The seed in the earth slumbers.
The mules in the field look pensive and sad. They are
of no use anymore, the farmer keeps them because they
make the landscape more rustic.
Whoever loved a tractor, even if painted blue?
The harvest of this year is done
Sheep have been sheared and look exposed
grazing under olive trees
I can see it in the eyes of all living things: Melancholy
for the future to come.
Will we be here next year?
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