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Cautious is the sound,
The sound of the still mountains.
As if the icebergs rooted to the lake,
They moan to the skies for centuries.
But nothing exotic about them I see,
They are just true embodiment
Of natural humility and order.
A coating of snow on sugar tops,
So solid and so strong –
I am fascinated by this paradox!
The evening filled with olive crushing noise
Swinging from the neighbour’s oil fabrika,
November fog cuddles the swimmer’s arms
Trumpeting the skin of Garda,
A Kremlin wall of cut wood
In the garden –
The contours of the world, in which my heart
The permeable microcosm:
The mountains don’t save from cold,
The olives – on a “crushing journey” from outdoors
To homes,
The art of log stacking becomes a requiem
To summer warms.
The boundary between the inner and the outer
Is getting weak,
Especially when neophytes like me
Peer Into the unfamiliar
To understand what Brenta Dolomites are silent about
And how to vocalise that silence that one admires
But cannot repeat.