the waning moon, still high, in the early winter marble sky oversees the moment
stairs and alleys as rivers in flood leading to the valley scattered wandering thoughts
smiles and tears of centuries old, in every dialect of the world engraved in the wind
messy mosaic
smiles and tears, stones and flowers that slip between the hustle and bustle
the fortress does not listen to voices of the city and oversees its golden exile
and we do not care about the traffic slowly flowing away
because together we got to the mountain top again and again
and we know that, after each and every climb, it is easy to fall in love walking downhill
with the name of fatigue ingraved on the heart
a smile and a tear
the sun rises once more
the waning moon supervises this fragile fragment of infinite time
and we know that there is no possible gain,
this is not a game of nobles and serfs
this is only the movement of life
again and again
again and again
Marco Bo
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