Flitting from flowers,
All tottering.
Bozen to Bolzano,
Your boot soul licking
Alpine dirt and tarmac,
To sweet sea air:
Heart strings all strung out
On a last love and a final destination.
Known only in the knees,
Born always in the eyes,
Pulling you out and
Splintering the oldest tether:
From the belly’s core
To the mother’s bloodstream,
All flung, maybe fleeing,
From heights to valley
With the floodwaters.
Neither leading
Nor being chased
(Neither consummating
Nor abstaining),
Bound with rubber bands
To the iron post
At the tunnel’s mouth.
Whisper to the next traveler
The gibberish recipe
You chant like a verse
And sing like a warning.
Sweat we shed,
Tears we whip away,
Mingling with the raindrops
Gathering in the depths of the valley.
Will it dissolve the bonds
At the post at the mouth
Of the tunnel, or drown
The whisperer?