Waiting for the miracle to come

The road, still long night and day, crosses deserts, forests,

city sidewalks; lights of houses and shop windows shine,

altars of temples, itineraries of love, desires for good,

comforted sufferings, peaceful beaches.

Now fugitives, we try obliged paths, highways of life,

shouts and noises; fall leaves that always whisper

something to us,

and the wind drags them on wheels and whirlpools,

on pierced eaves from the frost of a night.

Doves leave and repeat the round, elegant, sumptuous,

at their wings I entrust the morning, in their sober elegance

it disintegrates and recomposes itself in a flash the infinite.