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It paves roads where previously there were none.
It attracts people to the inner shores,
Mortals who would otherwise be at dinners:
Restaurant waiters, joggers, risk-seekers.
The bluish mist – Tchaikovsky’s score –
And swans, swans, cigni, cigni!
The appearance of the bird in the sky
In the key moment of when the dawn
Transforms Garda into the “elsewhere”
For which we yearn,
Signals the Dolomites in pas de deux –
Nureyev and Fonteyn,
Holding crisscrossed hands – to disappear.
The hour when the mountains make obstacles to happiness
And all because
It paves the ways where hitherto there were none,
The bluish fog,
It leaves the mortals and the lake
In its surreal feathered white tutu
Till the successive supper.