A wave, like a life, had a trajectory. And he would watch the birds and nod 'Occhi' when asked was he done with dinner and dress simply and eat simply and sometimes forget to shave and listen to absolutely no news. And if he fell sick, he'd let the gods either take him or get him better. In the long run, simple is best. And walking. And sleep. Forgetful sleep. And the songs of the birds. And winter with fewer tourists. It wouldn't be so cold, there.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I truly adore this poem. The words are so effortlessly written and weaved with simple truths. Lovely.