The sea is a bit 'more moves, now I see the ripples of waves. Rise slowly, at the top ripple, they become white foam and then descend. And on and on, for miles and miles to get to die on a beach who do not know, a continent whose name is unknown. Nothing to report.
The small waves of yesterday have become storm. There is not only the white foam on top and everything is white, everywhere. The angry sea roaring in the sky struck by a dark rumbling thunder that calved agile and lightning fast. And, as a shock to many hands, disorderly and chaotic, from right and left-handed, the waves running towards each other, meet, collide, break and shatter into a myriad of projections. Water breaks the water, and the fragments are still falling into the water and waves are growing, mountain, break even and reforming water still growing and still not break until the storm ceases.
has run slowly calmed the sea. Past two days the sky is back blue like water. Just a few little cloud over there, break the blue in white. I should not be very far from the coast: I see many different things around me. An olive branch, for example. Dropped because of the storm that has generated a storm here and there, the wind has uprooted branches then the rain slid down, down, up the creek. This, then, opening in the river has brought down my arm to the river which, with more calmness and strength, without boulders that impeded without loops in which stuck, eventually led him to the sea and came here, near me. From the glass of the bottle, my house, I saw him move and touch. I was almost wrapped up, with its leaves leaden thick and hard, resistant to the seas and years.
Watch ... Next to me, not far from the olive branch, another bottle: the power has brought us closer. Amazed and astonished, I fixed a long time. It was there, and gazing over the mist that fogged and when he hath been lit greeted me, and I smiled. Hello I made with my hand and told me, and I forgot a warmth caressed and embraced. So I saluted twice, then three, and I think that looks like a puppet to the seagull flew over us in search of something living to eat. And she also, in response, began to greet me, made me signs, but I did not understand tell me what he wanted, except that he wanted to communicate with me. But how? We smiled and began showing her how to do A. And so was I to tell you the B. Nodded vigorously, her face intent, corrugated and thoughtful, and showed me the C. Not realized at first, but then, on reflection, inclusive. I sbracciai yet, as the narrow space of the bottle and allow me the proposed D. It was not easy, perhaps he had another idea in mind of D but in the end we managed to understand each other. Place both hands to the glass, both. We could not touch but it felt close, as if the bottles do not exist, no longer a barrier. And then she was starting with E, but a letter was not easy. I tried to understand what he meant, but every time I seemed to have grasped the meaning, that's escaped me. It 's so? - Gesticulating - or rather in that way? And she nodded or refusal to all my attempts, trying to get me to grasp the meaning of that letter. I thought, finally, to have, if not understood, at least understood the meaning of his words even when the sea swells. He returned to the foam, at first delicate, almost a wreath at the waves, then more assertive, to eat the blue and light blue. There are waves, shy at first, then more and more pronounced until it becomes high, very high. And I was still sballottolato and fro, up and down.
The storm has ceased. E 'returned the endless blue and white, still, only a few cloud in the sky. The waters are calmer, but I do not see the olive branch and the other bottle was dragged elsewhere, its currents.
smooth sailing today. My current carry me into the setting sun, to the west. I look around and I try, I lean to what I may, but just do not see it. I do not think you understand E, and I do not think I will understand more. Nothing to report.
Written listening to an old disco di Tom Kazas che non suonavo da lustri. Cercavo un’atmosfera eterea, calma e un po’ malinconica che desse il la a questo raccontino. Sulla mia pagina di Facebook alcuni link.
Pubblicato su La poesia e lo spirito
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