The sun is stuck. It cannot set.

It has set the air on fire, the field on fire.

I am tired of this beauty that shouts.


I am in, I am out.

I wish for a thin orange cloud

to reach out and make the sun trip

on the line of the horizon, or

for the tops of the cypresses

to tickle him and make him roll

on his fat belly, and disappear

in an amazed laugh.


I slip out, I slip in.

This naked sky is stealing again

my precious breath. I wish he would

wear the night dress he holds in his hands.

The worn daily dress still casually lies on the ground.

Some thought, some pain, some lost love

made the sky halt in his changing.

I think he is writing a poem.


I am in, I am out.

I have listened and followed, enthused,

and now I am tired of this beauty that shouts.

The mystery has gone, the power

has faded. The candle has burned

itself out by exhaustion.

Give me peace, dear sun, give me closure.

I have grown thin and pale,

like a young, ill moon.


The sun has set. The night

has lifted her eyelids. The world

beneath the world has opened,

and I sit on the threshold.

Elisa Sabbadin