AUTOMN

Dora
Autumn is already here.
The late afternoon comes grumbling.
The flowers smell Death.
The sun rises tired and sets impatiently.
Night wins easier the day.
The Worms, Dora, deep in the Earth they prepare their meal.

Dora it is autumn.
The moon in your window.
The jasmine on your hair-it's time for us
Leaving the metallic Earth and covering our faces with our hands
To turn back to Hope;
It is time for us
To make company to the small house of the village with the white washed yard and the secret Love.
I am walking and I don't see in front of me.
I look behind, to the days of the summer and the small Spring, then, when you were counting my patience with pictures,
Then, when your little blouse was refreshing the whole world..
Do you remember how you took the scented air
And brought it to kiss my cheek?
Do you remember how you were gathering colours from the garden for winter?

Dora it is autumn.
The cold invades the house even with all its doors and windows locked.
The lights turn off early in the evening.
The doors close early in the afternoon.
The souls close before noon..
In Lanark Park they cut some trees and the sorrow is more visible now.
The shouts of the children are desperate
As if they suddenly understood that they will grow up.
The bright necklace of the morning is rusted from its own moisture.
The sky is so low that you can touch it with your hand.
Looking at the wall I can see the molecules of the calcium in the plaster. lt is so perfectly I can see lately-do you think I am dying Dora?
If I listen to the flow of the blood, I can hear it stumbling in my left renal artery-is it possible I am already dead?
The neighbours became circumspect-now they don't look at me when I pass-do you think I am invisible Dora Dora! How your name matches with autumn!..)
In the evening the roads resemble sleeping snakes.
The light shines shadows instead of men and rustles instead of voices.
The cat goes home early carrying mystery on her bent back, and allowing it to shine a little into her eyes.
The ostrich feels safe with its head squeezed in the sand-you, you defend yourself with the excitement hidden in your childishness.
The ashes of the autumn make us all white Dora.
White like the yogurt man who, used to come in the evenings to the window-and outside was snowing.
White like the cotton they put into the mouth of the dead man.
And under the snow, the black overcoat of the yogurt man was outstanding.
And under the cotton. the black wall of Death was distinguished.
Dora it is autumn.
And you far from me...