Hanging on a fiery iron stem, without rust, still.
Drops ready to fall.
Life for disparate plants, cultivated or left.
The yellow-chest bird
Is scampering — CIAF, CIAF –
Unconscious and delicate.
Now, proud, he is picking up a leaf, torn and scrunch:
concrete for a safe and joyful nest.
Now he is disappearing: from here I cannot see him any more.
I can see just the mellow and velvet purple of geranium,
-turgid, not warped by the rain, not fallen apart by these
drops of life.
In the room,
of my lifeless world
I watch the world out there…
Always, there is this impending cloud.
I think about the wonder of life,
the nest of the nightingale inside the thorny leaves of the succulent,
the magic of blending in it
to protect that incipient life,
encircled in little and fragile eggs.
I think about that yellow-chest tiny body,
guarding its greatest good.
A sense of life.
I think about a sign of life still dancing, no matter what.
When confusion captivates me
and I would like to rest on a white shore,
like a tired and dizzy whale,
not to think -as my thoughts have no way out
not to feel…