I will write
our story
to read it on evenings
in front of my fire
that devours tremors
waiting.
I will listen to it with my awakening
smelling like chubby children
far and unaware
of your sweetness, prelude
of obsession.
I will copy it
and frame it
in chapters without
numbers and with never ending
pages.
I will sing it to the October winds,
to the runaway of the sun
towards the earth;
to the sea in the morning,
who assaults me with its salt gems
and I will shout it again
through the hearth of
the night,
waking up
the lonely men
who dredge up the city
looking for our treasure.
I will remember our unsure steps,
the pauses, and the passions, and the urgencies,
your hot breath while
you assault my body, and
I will have drunk the moon
which crosses your glance.
I will spy solitary cats
and will see you
lighting the pen and
the paper full of
your disconnected handwriting.
And again the night will
explode and will devour us,
without anything that will spare us
immense moments of torment.
I, I will write it
Damned angel*,
to steel the ink from you,
to see again your fingers
touch my skin.
I will sing it among the tremors,
without breath,
so nobody will be able to write
its end.
Diana Marrone, Storie Mute, 1992
*P.V. Tondelli, Camere Separate, Bompiani,Italy, 1989, quotation