by bartolo cattafi
My love, don’t believe that today
the planet travels on another orbit,
it is the same journey between old
there is alway a sparrow flitting
in the flowerbeds
a thought grown stubborn in the mind.
Time turns on the face of the clock, it joins
a trace of the fog above the pine trees
the world veers into the regions of cold.
Here are the crumbs of the earth,
the embers in the fireplace,
the low and busy hands.