Love

It was up there,

over the towers,

over high

imaginary palaces

passed through by the wind.

It didn’t feed

from our past,

it didn’t search for a meaning

for tomorrow.

It was there, wool

and finest silk

precious and sought-after,

to be imagined on the chest

heating the winter,

sheltering us from that sick fog.

It was here, warm and shiny  

star

brightening up the night,

vivid and unreal.

There it had to remain.

But I’ve hands

inquisitive and awkward,

like clumsy children.

A moment to touch it

and find it shortly after,

incredulous, on the ground

in thousand pieces.

March 9, 2004