A scrawl drawn in the sky exaggerates in storm;
an ambitious breath wants us to believe to be a hurricane;
sounds by the old bagpipes, as an orchestra,
they are glued on the Harlequin’s multicolored dress…
cicadas frozen come and go
between the lowest F
and the highest B,
like a dirge,
like a song at random,
as an exorcism against the water and wind.
Meanwhile, distressed and almost anemic,
the last stroke from the bell tower arrives
to proclaim died the new day.