It's cold


You're so distant, awaited
my hearth trembling in breast
a letter. Invain.
Why don't you reply ?
Did you neglect the sweet time gone by?
In a warm summer day the sundown
lightens up with gold leaves
and the herbs of the lawn. . .
Hand in your hand
whispers the summer night
shivering moves the fronds
scent of limes in the air
your look speaking of love.
Clouds are passing slow there above mansions
and softly the evening descends.
The small photo in my hand where you smile
it's sole of you that remains.
I watch you and I can't think, no more
I can't speak, no more.
It's cold ...

Maria Annunziata Bertagnolio

Copyright ©2002 Maria Annunziata Bertagnolio