To Andrew Simor
The color of old gold scarf
that had accompanied me to live for three years
the glory of love light misery
the loneliness of the narrow streets as coffins
and all the moments that the water will be recording with green lines
in front of the statues
That scarf color gold old purchased in the mist of Genoa
(five hundred lire at the entrance of Europe)
flag of freedom poetry flag scarf
in a world of stones worn in which man
painfully
tries to renew unceasingly
for no aging
to not die
The color of the rue Viconti dog scarf
(the street in which it is always snowing or raining)
I just lose it has fallen back behind
with a bit of my youth
now that the moisture inhabits the walls
and the night grows under wraps
with the frosted shaking of branches