It was not rain, no, it was not snow,
it was not sunshine nor wind,
and the season was only its limited area,
a plastic model of time, a vision.
It was not before, no, it was not after,
it was not night nor day, it would detach
and attach into a moment devoid of you,
of me, of all that which was there.
It was not you, no, it was not me,
it was not mouth nor body, not hand nor eye,
but abandoned at the bottom of its reflection
was the useless flash of a glance.
Non era pioggia, no, non era neve
non era sole o vento, e la stagione
era soltanto il suo ristretto spazio
un plastico di tempo, una visione.
Non era prima, no, non era dopo
non era notte o giorno, si staccava
e si fissava in un istante vuoto
di te, di me, di tutto ciò che c’era.
Non eri tu, no, non ero io
non era bocca corpo mano occhio
ma abbandonato in fondo al suo riflesso
l’inutile bagliore di uno sguardo.
