Childhood has no single place,
no secret garden,
no single carousel to ride on,
nor tree branch to fall from:
just hours, that slip away,
so similar to music,
which has no place either,
just passing time
it tries to keep up with.
In playgrounds
kids run in circles,
sliding down,
climbing up
the imagined trees,
spaceships, and horses.
Sounds of little shoes
against hard rocks and stones,
rain puddles. Splash!
Pure wonder, screams.
Bruised knees stopping them
yet again
from another ride
on endlessly revolving carousel.
Sweet squeaking melodies.
No music is without accidents,
especially if, for a while, abandoned.
After a deep breath,
one more swing,
yet another jump,
a hit of wooden sword. Trash!
Wind in the ears. Sometimes
a birdsong.
The feeling of adventure.
Mothers voice,
right in the middle of
nomadic cloud cinema.
Another deep breath.
Dramatic decisions about
sand castles
that silently collapse in
sudden rain.
Tomorrow they will
reappear again.
Dal segno al coda.
Surprise—
no rain today.
The town wears a fresh
uniform after a
snowfall.
Wild screams
absorbed in the white matter.
Lost toys, forgotten.
And the quest for protection
of frozen sand castles is announced.
— Hurrah!
The clouds are falling.
Divine are sounds
descending from above.
Warm breath against the
winter freeze. No voice
is audible,
only a stranger’s steps in snow.
The games have stopped
in playground,
world turned to ice.
Surrounded by
stillness,
I whisper without thinking:
The North, if there’s no light left,
is such
a mystical place
to spend one’s time.
Delighted is the ear
to listen to the silence
of big skies.
