Then July, the age between primary and secondary school,rnlike the millennia of void and waitingrnbefore the planet’s transmutations.rnl.oria, Ferri, and Dalmasso,rnto what streets, what cities in the worldrnafter graduation, the diasporarnthat July of growth and leave-taking?rnI remember the empty desks in the bright sun,rnthe schoolroom door shut by the caretaker,rnthe teacher now with his back turned, in the shadowrnof the corridor and then of the porches and then darkness.rnRipples shaped like spangles,rnslight stiffening of the water’s motion,rncrests that look like glass,rnvitreous-looking ridges, soon broken,rntightened breeze, the waves unfurl and draw out,rnthe crests are torn into white foam.rnThus, in the sky, the motions rule us,rnand from the stillness to the wind time stretches.rnOthers I met again later,rnin cities populous and never seen,rnothers in places and hours known.rnNow I am within time, I know that some came backrnhere, where the sun warms the stone,rnamong the breathing shades of leaves and people.rnOthers came back in me, in the eiboriumrnof memory where we grasp and hope,rnbut in that moment I saw them by me,rncontemporary, present, mine.rnThen, every wave by the wind crushedrnair full of foam, white sea;rnand nothing visible between the waters and the skyrnnothing that looked like a horizon,rnstorm, white obscurity, energyrnsent forth in the shapeless universe.rnThere was no echo, the deaf blow was lost,rnfrom within, in silence and darkness:rnin that moment I remained alone, in frontrnof the house I’d been looking for, deserted,rnuninhabited except by those who unmovingrnfeigned death,rndenying to me and to themselves the illusion of breath.rnThen, in the night that was drawing on at my backrnI heard the hand beating the secondsrnof the internal clock, immortal timernthat left me aside, forsaken by the utmost course—rnmathematical—of time. The darkrnlost any grain of light or hope, lost its shapernit was a void of light between myself and possible others,rn1 remembered the name of no one, of nothing.rnThen among the leaves at my left 1 heardrnthe shade of a plant move, alert,rnand caught the beat of my heart, aloud,rnin the loneliness of nightrnand in the frozen charm of all the forces at hand,rndumb presences of the planet, syllablesrndisembodied for centuries, in that beatrnthey brought the galaxies and the universe backrnto the ancientrnbreath, I was alone and high up in front of the door.rnof the other one, dark night waiting forever.rnThen, like a slap, a wind hotrnand violent woke me up, tossed the curtain,rnrising from the sea toward the shade of the compartment.rnIts seat was as empty as the tropospherernon the coasts that scudded by at my right,rnwhen the air arises dragged along by its burningrnand the empty sky calls for more to the brackishrnand cold waters. Void and dark and desertrnwas the way back, the passagewayrnglimmered with feeble tunnel lightsrnand I did not know what night would wait for me,rnwhat dark, what obscurity, on the way out,rnif anything would have remained identical andrnwithout starsrnforever till the end of the journey and of the west,rnif she was vanished for a while or foreverrnand I with her, like fire and powderrnthat at their first kiss consume each other.rnThe mind, again, goes through the stations again,rnthe possiblernwounds, Arcnzano, Varazze, or Celle, maybe,rnperhaps she still goes up to the pine-woodrnas happened on another birthday,rnand maybe the footprints in the sand were hers,rnat Augustus’s baths, it was she who was going awayrnslight in the darkness of the underground walkway.rnOr maybe she was the one who in Spotorno,rnmultiplied in the discotheque lights,rnseemed to me pure moving image,rna soul electrified by the sound and by its tempo,rnor in Noli, suspended on the see-saw of the park.rnNot here, now, six miles far from Francernat the western boundary and at the end of sense,rnbefore, in the oily water of dream’s last moment,rnthe shining black that came after the stormrnin Piazza del Perfctto Amore, between shade and shade,rnor in Vico del Ferro, by the wallsrncrumbled by centuries of stroking hands,rnwhere 1 got lost between east and west,rnwhere the tall buildings sway like shipsrnamong gargoyles, niches and figure-headsrnbuilt on the rolling and powerful earth.rnThere she had led me, on the deep journey,rnthere she had gone down from that, burned in a flash.rnIt’s dark. I looked westward, at the great intermittentrnlighthousernwhich is like the lids of my eyes in the dark,rndumb, mutual swaying back and forth,rnharmony crude between shore and soul,rnthere, where the path started and the dream endedrnperhaps she awaits me, for the last journey.rnIn the planet’s shudder and in the flux of time.rnAPRIL 1993/31rnrnrn