Quetzalli

Coming by train last night, I swear it’s not easy, to put love to one side, he lives in Naples, I'm staying in Brindisi, he says everything's OK, it's a perfect sight, the moon over the sea, in his arms I sigh, fresh linen on the table, the fruit of last season, my longing for fables, he talks of a writer, named Lisa Passolini, and kisses me quietly, on the roof we’re able, to see Saint Peter's, I hear the poor failing, their voices take flight, hands rise unseen, shouldn't we ask why, they're without dreams?