Long times without words – only notes
and not mine (able to write, not to play a piano).
The music of my language lost (a lot of ways of making music, if perhaps music is something you can do),
forgotten,
cruelty.
It was fear, ‘cause toughts are made of words and i didn’t want.
I didn’t want my mind in movement.
My mind travelling – sliding – down in deep places
i still know enough,
i still know too much.
What a soft light, today,
in my eyes, in my head, out, from the window, in my ears
(oh please, please, also in my tomorrows).
Writing is my beloved.
My patience and constant love WHO is waiting for me again.
La scrittrice sta tornando e non può essere diversamente.
Sono io – il resto è poco altro.