Darkness comes from the window panes it comes, a slow rain Poem by Gian Mario Villalta

Darkness comes from the window panes it comes, a slow rain.
Darkness comes into one's hands, it brings a cold
that is not of the earth, a darkness that casts us
into the den of the world: out there, out there, into the deep maybe there is
the entire town, under a lake of darkness
and a dam of darkness between the blood that comes
to the heart and the blood that goes
divides the house from the emptiness:
on this side, a mountain of obscurity,
and on this one, a flood of darkness
by now they are gone a moon and months and entire
seasons: the bed stands, the stairs, the kitchen
with its bitter light.
The job floats, the street
that ties us and a few weeks
of vacation on the beach of nothingness.
The rest, is all down there, in the darkness,
all the future - and let it go!
I'm the one who says so, of all,
who let no one go,
not even the dead
in their death - I can't hold anybody,
I, tight, like darkness in darkness.