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All the world ponders the poet
Quiet on a sofa resting
A weary head
For whom had it bled?

The eye searchers the girl
Quiet on a sofa showing
a naked thigh

A spaceman draws a sigh
Wondering how air is made

The poet struggles
To yield to pure feelings
Resistance turns out painful
Articulate phrases
The mind’s defining moment
Is a play on words

A spaceman scrawls a thought
And howls into the soundless night
Earth rises over the moon
Quiet on a sofa imagining
His way home

After a day’s work is done
We must all find our way home.

ROMA, 28 8 1999