I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch
near the fire the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals were little boats
that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget ... read more