ARCH OF ICE Poem by Giovanni Quessep

In the garden, the moon
leaves an arch of ice over the wall;
and in the color there is a silence, that goes
from purple to blue towards the dark.

Pendent from a grave something
we fall into the abyss of the things
that are no longer the quiet music.
The agony is the center, here there were roses

that had their clear noon.
But, in its flight, the balsamic song
closed whatever was canticle and gave place
to the sound of the cicada and its iced wings.

Don't tell us then
that life - because you have always loved it-
calls us to a forest of secret perfumes
if its just a wall of calcinated glass.