Well, damn their eyes –
Nights, do not father souls any more
And you, soul, stop getting chilled to the bone –
It’s nearly spring, meadows, life
Disperse in desire and mauve wildflowers –
Winter we’ll dismiss like a pushy salesman
Who asks for the lady of the house –
How many skies have you stashed away
When stroking women’s hair at night,
How many when letting in
Shadows of wolves and pine needles –
Or were they the eyes of meadows?
Shut up, hope, men and leaves
Are getting senile, they’ll run away
From cider, dishonour,
Tales of women and wrinkly days:
Just give her American oranges,
Spring winds to sweep away wisdom and tales,
To stroke trees again, the hands that held
Shadows of wolves, pine needles,
Those blind blue borders –
Oceans maybe –
Who seldom called her love.

Gabriella Garofalo

Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella fell in love with the English language at six, started writing poems (in Italian) at six and is the author of “Lo sguardo di Orfeo”; “L’inverno di vetro”; “Di altre stelle polari”; “Blue branches”.

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