Slight fog. The water is flowing silently.
Peace.
Chill. Absence.
The river runs perennially, traveling, leaving an icy scent in my heart.
When the snow falls on the river, my heart hibernates.
It takes
shelter in a corner all covered with moss. It sleeps.
Then, my migrant soul flies south, back home,
while my id sits on the river bank, watching me sleep.
Di Fiore, 2002
