Ci sono mucchi di parole,
che mi ronzano in testa.
Fortunatamente hanno vita breve,
come falene intorno alla luce.
Sbattono le ali freneticamente
e poi si accasciano.
Parole che ignorate diventano polvere,
ma scritte sono volti di acari ingranditi.
Invisibili lettere che diventano mostri.
Fortunatamente svolazzano e cadono,
prima di essere scritte.
And if I speak of Paradise,
then I’m speaking of my grandmother
who told me to carry it always
on my person, concealed, so
no one else would know but me.
That way they can’t steal it, she’d say.
And if life puts you under pressure,
trace its ridges in your pocket,
smell its piney scent on your handkerchief,
hum its anthem under your breath.
And if your stresses are sustained and daily,
get yourself to an empty room – be it hotel,
hostel or hovel – find a lamp
and empty your paradise onto a desk:
your white sands, green hills and fresh fish.
Shine the lamp on it like the fresh hope
of morning, and keep staring at it till you sleep.
