Saturday.
it never happens anything, on Saturday.
I opened EFP almost out of boredom. And I discovered a new chapter of Shashee. Now I am convinced: a story that will delight. A lemon sorbet.
I will think about tonight, and tomorrow I will try to write a comment.
Assim another.
cabbage. Cabbages.
Laurie's story is too good to belittle it.
Ugh!
anyway.
Trent at night is beautiful.
Bright . With the sky of a single hue and haze (nonexistent) around all 
and mountains. Light pollution. There is not a star.
and mountains. Light pollution. There is not a star. However, in Piazza Duomo, is full of washing machines.
Up a dove passava la roggia. E se chiudi gli occhi e prendi un bel respiro, la senti ancora.
C'è l'acqua sotto quella astra di marmo (o è porfido?).
L'acqua che corre verso l'Adige.
L'acqua degli annegati, dei panni lasciati a mollo con la cenere calda e l'aceto, e di quelle lavatrici.
Un'opera d'arte.
Recita il foglio, quatidiano, appeso sul coperchio.
Non ho ben capito cosa voglia rappresentare. Certo. Ho letto la spiegazione.
E continuo a non capire.
Un tuffo (restiamo nel campo liquido, và) nel passato? Una crociata ecologista?
Un modo as any to draw attention?
Mah!
The fact remains that I dviertita bipedal watching ants bustling around to washing machines of Piazza Duomo.
And Neptune smiles slyly. What
foiling our smallness?
In the half gray and half black
remains without a plow horse that seems
forgotten, between the vapor light.
It is clocked by gora
the lapping of lavender
flops with thick and long songs.
The wind blows and the snow bush,
and yet you do not come to your country!
When you left, as I stayed!
As the plow in the middle of the fallow.
Giovanni Pascoli, Lavender in Myricae
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