Nothing works at the moment.
Only the birds dare
in this mute window.
Is it or is it not a silence?
It's about time, says the earth,
to quieten down a little,
that for a moment you can feel
the thread that binds us together:
the music of traveling comics,
the tiny voices in the sky,
the rose that belongs to no one,
the eternal quivering of the creatures of the air.
Everything has stopped working
to make it all work.
Bicycle ride with Antonio Vivaldi.
I no longer distinguish between the birds in the headset
and the real birds.
Although the day is grey and only the puddles are shining,
who'd have thought it wasn't spring.
Pedaling on the short circuit they give
the times, and soon harmony will emerge
from the confluence of music outside and inside;
also in the thoughts that get entangled
and they unravel like jasmine and honeysuckle.
Yellow chases the red, red the green,
to the violet, to the grey of the sky...
I like every moment of the day.
They're innocent witnesses to the light and they're your body.
If there was anything out of place, I would seek
its immediate correction and return to the bosom of the river.
Everything flows, but in one moment the water stops,
against a stone.
You stop for a few moments to dream,
and you go back with other dreams to shoot another scene,
under the usual tree.
There's a happy ending to everyone's story
We would say that the light reaches everywhere
and she envelops every single thing.
She calls each by its name.