To Our Friend Massimo

And it was a that age... Poetry arived

in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where

it came from, from winter of a river.

I don't know how or when,

no, they were not voices, they were not

words, nor silence,

but from a street I was sommoned,

from the branches of night,

abruptly form the others,

among violent fires

or returning alone,

there I was without a face

and it touched me. - Pablo Neruda -

To our friend Massimo|}}