1. September

The world is pale.

The poet has opened his eyes.

His breathing is not any louder or faster

than sunrise. I love him, no wonder.

Some tree branch is knocking

on the glass of the window

with firm yellow hands.

Beyond, the fog of the fields,

beyond, the first rays of sunshine.


between the bed and the window

I have never been so young.



2. October

Time is full.

Wine has been drunk,

meat has been eaten,

love has been made.

I cannot dream this dream away.

The poet is laughing, and drinking his

copious, amazed tears. The road unravels.

The sun beats his glory into every atom,

and life itself sweats hot satisfaction.

Nothing taught, nothing learned.

Love has been made,

meat has been eaten,

wine has been drunk.

Time is full.



3. November

The world is broken.

Yet shadows of gold are

still spread in the trees.

The poet has died.

His huge light blue eyes,

once looking up, have now

become the sky.

Life, too young, too excitable,

hid she was pregnant with death.

I stick my fingers in the ground,

and search for an answer epidermically.

My skin thirsts for decay.

Death must be here.

The only answer –


Elisa Sabbadin