IV Poem by Antonella Anedda

She was running towards a shelter, she shielded her head.
She belonged to a weary image
no different from any woman
surprised by the rain.

I did not wish to speak on war
but on truce
to mediate over the space and therefore over the details
the hand that feels the wall, the candle lighted for an instant
and - outside - the glittering leaves.
Yet another enclosure with thorns hidden among other thorns
earth thorns that burn the heels.

What stretches itself out the weight of the before
the precipitating of the after:
this I call truce
measure that makes fright the measure
a yardstick that does not protect.

Close to truce is transit
from one place going to another place
without any real destination
with nothing in that motion that may be called travel
distraction of faces
while the rain pours.

Like the train truce needs the plain
a dream of horizons
with trees raised towards the sky
the only lances, solitary sentinels.