Whirlwind you are, shaking my old leaves

I watch you through the day, silent.

in the early mornings, while you still sleep.

I watch you and think many thoughts, more or less difficult.

I watch you when you drive us away to someplace else in this little holiday taken.

I don’t think I’ll ever tire out.

Colours extravagant and the sharp perfume of lavender.

The cadence of your voice in another tongue.

Earth blood red, diffusing its colour to light brown.

But the sky is down under my feet, the height of my waist.

Blue lavender, as far as I can see.

A sky made of flowers that sways in the evening as the sun leaves us in the shade and the perfume gets sharper.

Ecco fiori per voi:
lavanda fragrante, menta, santoreggia, maggiorana,
il fiorrancio, che va a letto col sole
e con lui s’alza, piangendo: questi son fiori
di mezza estate, e io penso che si diano
a uomini di mezza età.
(William Shakespeare)

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