Then problems and dangers disappeared,
we saw things in the clear
atmosphere, precise, enumerated, in file
along the lines which from the window
stretch as far as the horizon.
To move waters, to smash molecules,
to rend the air were easy gestures,
to pass from motion to rest
and vice versa was a game.
The circle of the future was heavy in the sky
refreshed sometimes by the celestial
perfume of ozone
from a squall of rain.
Earlier in summer – sirens ran through the quarters –
we thought of clear images of fire.
There were no fires there.
But ships are noisy in the wind
and rustle in the plane trees in the blankets in the courtyards,
ships that bring us back to the open
sea from where we came, where
a hand’s-breadth of blue costs a great deal
and everything is uncertain, even the azure.
(Bartolo Cattafi)
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