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***

You are my hometown of forgetfulness, of healing,

Made for ЛЮБОВЬ [LUBOVJ – love],

I woke to find you swathed in la nebbia,

ТЫ НЕБО [TY NJEBO – you are the sky]!

The sense of gravity pops off your streets,

Hands hover over the partituras and oils.

You smell with freshly sharpened pencils, of woods,

Of “violin forests” – Paneveggio,

I marvellously feel enlarged inside your fort,

Born in a shirt – РУБАШКА [RUBASHKA]!  ,

Still mouthful of kisses, not of words –

БЕЗ СЛОВ [BEZ SLOV]! Senza parole!

Your avenues are dense with butterflies –

ПОРХАТЬ КАК БАБОЧКА [PORHATJ KAK BABOCHKA – to float like a butterfly]!

The air thick of honey, not of dust,

The city channels are like sleeveless evening dresses,

Something of a northern puritan in me

Prevents my lips from sieging you,

My dear hometown,

I nose shyly over and around your medieval church,

Я СЛУШАЮ, КАК СЕРДЦЕ БЬЁТСЯ [YA SLUSHAJU, KAK SERTSE BIJOTSA – I listen to the heart beating]! 

Primavera primitiva su A3, chokes 2023, Sara Maino