NIGHT Poem by Aldo Nove

It happens when we open up, and it tumbles
into us, brimming over to the horizon,

continually crumbling and rising.
In the rolling whirl of the opposites

every gesture changes into wind
and roughly shakes the trees, can you feel it?

It is the wind, breathing in our blood,
a symphony of the blood, our pact,

two rivers melting into the sea
where we come from but not in this time:

for here, there is no time, just the present
the limit is you, and here, ‘you' means nothing,

and I mean nothing, my love,
nor the wind does.