Looking as deep as I can, I try to guess the color of water in me: a familiar sum of mysterious drops and, inside each drop, of particles like words, prefixes, suffixes, prepositions, meanings hidden, ambivalent predispositions.

I am wondering the secret of the shaping mould.

Now cold, the sudden comfort of a chill;
I keep running
over the hill,
shaking,
tired of carrying the luggage
of  doubt,
tricky,
with its sticky texture
all over my hands and smile,
glued,
as an excuse for hopelessness.

Finally, among those dark red roofs
that meet my inquiring eyes, uphill,
like a hundred ovens under the sun, I find
the one home that overlooks the sleepy lake.

From its top, I look at the reflecting surface
and try to see through the color of water,
in silence, without awakening the placid air
so that I can finally write it all down,
like some incantation, inspiration found,
each pattern, rhythm done and undone;
a crystal bell, chiseled, ringing, then broken…

To each crisis, its magic spell I will write.

Lakes seldom wake up more than a second or two. The security of mountains and hills keep them asleep: a bubbly lullaby of primeval times, has now turned into the quiet opulence of older days. Rich houses stretch out their balconies to the sun and scenary; they have nothing more to prove.

Still, I wait and look up, for a quiet storm,
then I look down, for the invisible signs
of stubborn magic.