THIS RAIN OF MARCH

When friends are gone,

The words will be lost in your mind,

You will know they are there,

But it will be as if they could not come from your own lips.

They will be pushed into the circle of your mind,

As fast as the drops of this incessant rain of March

Wandering from side to side,

Bouncing along the glass of the windows

And darting away.

Then you’ll understand that the meaning

Will be in the pleasure of being welcomed at last

After so long a time

Into another’s world.

Paolo Driussi.

FEBRUARY SUNDAY EVENING

Occasionally

But even more at the end of a Sunday

I start to think that

if there’s a hard currency to spend,

This is the time.

Where are you? I cannot see you.

Have you already gone?

There is no age or social class,

Or profession in which

The human being doesn’t own

This currency of the time

And is not subject to the dilemma

Of how to spend it.

Or to the sad embarrassment

Of not knowing how to spend it

Or the misery of a lazy 

And indifferent squandering

As if it were a  devalued currency.

Shall we meet again? 

Reply to the message, please

Slowly the train starts 

In this sad February Sunday evening.

Paolo Driussi.