Hour of the Shepherds
It was nice in the countryside, a deep forgetfulness; the
endless rains had commenced, the fields were softened,
trees were drenched; small snails sauntered on the interior
walls leaving behind them a silvery line as a drip of saliva
remains on the side of the mouth of the asleep man.
Uncle Lampis
was smiling from afar. A tiny green leaf hid amid his
beard with such clever tenderness.
Perhaps he knew something more, perhaps he had agreed
with that shadow that appeared slanting through the door
soon as the lights were turned on or soon as one said
softly yet very clearly, I remember.
Nothing intervened from one hour to the next, from
silence to voice; only the monotonous sound of the rain,
just sound, levelling (for who were absent and for who
stayed behind)
a great, watery siege, securing life inside the houses.
A great quietness descended from the clouds. You
couldn’t hear the evening bells anymore; the colours,
yellow, brown, gray, and the somewhat purple faded
like scattered stigmata where the doubt ended.
