On just another tree lined street,
that we were passing through,
children were hitting rocks with sticks.
The baking smell of fresh biscuits
swirled into our lungs as mother hurriedly
rolled up our Chevy’s windows,
pushing down its locks with trembling hands.
When she nervously stopped at a phone booth,
small black curious fingers pressed up against
my closed rear window. As she jotted down
directions for the way home, I simply touched them back,
one by one, where the raised glass had begun to melt
between our fingertips.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I love this passage " on the road" in his sweet memory. So Paolo Conte sang about his mother: " You was lonely with only a geranium and a balcony."