Il Santuario di Oropa | Poetry

Age and time on smooth stones,

Uneven steps and prayers in song, Spirals and the rustle of the trees.

The language I was born with,

The language I have learnt that Puts all thoughts in a new order.

A priest passes, We are in a new place Suspended in white,

Breath kissed in God.

Another one turns his back As I come and I notice it,

I think of his voglia. I am under bells, their soaring, Beside children's eyes, walking sticks, Little dogs, below silent cloud music, In mountains, in wind-shift blue.