The peach-tree that I see blossoming among the ruins of the city of Milan is not life
triumphing over cement, but only cement air, a life of cement inside the tree, my life.
Our life eluded on the roof-tops.

So I look at the shape of the peach-tree,
I carve into its little thief-like foliage
the word plant, the word word
that may save it
that may save me and I try to say: yes,
for the force of a wall, yes,
for time to repeat
many times the same season
and never in my house.

On the wall, there's seven senses
One tied to the other, two by two, one consolidating
the other disappearing without fear of dreaming . . .

They're arranged in the shape of a poem, which says:

"The first sense
is the sense of joy, without purpose, as when
one thing reveals itself.

The second is that same thing, made close,
of which you must never speak.

The third sense is nocturnal,
where nobody sees anything
where the mind remains the same.

The fourth sense is with our friend the flower
and you and it are single thing
under a clear sky abandoned.

The fifth sense is far from love.

The sixth sense is not-of-yours.

The last sense is all of them,
seventh sense inexpiable,
hardens
the word into word, the wall into
wall."

Tiny humanity,
same substance of my heart,
make me of the dead and I shall be saved.

Translation: 2004, Gabriele Poole