Slowly my body grows a single sound, slowly I become a bell, an oval, disembodied vowel, I grow, an owl, an aureole, white fire poesia "Metamorfosi, I. Luna
The English language is nobody's special property.
We read, we travel, we become.
How can I turn from Africa and live?
The thing that is believed is a reality.
The truth is that the poems are ecstatic.