How To Get Through The Blanket Of Meido

My father


man who is not among the living, but living among them ...

said to me: look for your roots ...


and I listen suspended the wind and the thousand words
that broke out in silence.
decided green lights brighten
in a drop in the air that vibrates
drawn from the sun and the dust emanates. Earth ...
misty land, rich soil.
wheat, vineyards, olive trees ... between plants
(a sense of silent love, yet in that land


words have roots that gave life and gave death
and recall, two steps from the soul
stumbled,
finding myself unconscious) in

a soft dream ...

(where the hands had finished their tour
and fields, stealing that color of rust, the sun
languid Brush their own things,
before the break,
clothes were for a photograph)

postcard ... ...
and the heart beats to remember the dream light and heavy
;

garden invisible calligraphy
around what appears to be a multifaceted foliage
secret hermit who, today, I am, which gives
drop by drop, and vanishes for so little. And as the land


play the voices of the earth,
fertile land and fertile that I ate a handful
enough to be worn by its scent.

Spiga born again, who will include light a

my strength and will satisfy those who recognize my fruit.

Franca



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