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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