We still live on the corners

of the nothing

between the north and the south of the seasons.

 

We still sleep

embracing stone pillows

like our fathers.

 

We follow the same clouds

and we rest beneath the shadow of the bare acacias.

 

We drink down tea with sips of fire,

we walk barefoot so as not to frighten the silence.

 

And in the distance

on the slopes of the mirage

we still watch, like every evening

the sun setting on the sea.

 

And the same woman who pauses

at the lookouts of the dusk

in the centre of the map greets us.

 

She greets us and is lost

in the eyes of a child who smiles

from the lap of eternity.

 

We still wait for the following dawn

to start once more.