The comet
Paola Staccone

In the dense darkness of the sky
towards remote regions,
where our eye, and the mind
and the heart don't arrive,
you hang up, radiant,
in the hairs inflamed of sun,
to be admired, and your splendour
disquiets me.
A gloomy certainty
grasps at your trail:
nobody that tonight
will tighten between the eyelashes
your brightness
will live enough to look at you another time.
You'll pass again, ignorant,
on things that I won't see,
butterfly of light dancing
on the endless whirlpools of time.
 
 

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