I know a drifting land

suspended after precipice,

cold stone glacier,

Where the morning suffers.

Stillness, how does love sound falling?

"The west moors by the sea, opened deep,

sighing... a swallowed cry.

Its roots fold into a heavy wave,

through the house of echoes

and lions."

Fiorella Giordano*

I belong

to the red

and white leaves,

of your marrow.

I'm dark speech

embroidered

upon this earth.

The absence,

the fault-

in the moment.

But you,

you are wind,

in the attic

of my flame;

who causes me-

here

and there.

Fiorella Giordano*