Feeling romantic today, feeling fine, though I have nothing beautiful to say. That's just one more poor essay, prose or poetry, I do it my way. Me and my poet through Venice in a boat. A tiny point of ink spread in my eyes, I can see life in red, in rose or in violet. I can see the touch of the night, and his naked face beside mine. We both are used to be in silence, like the troops before a fight. Nothing happens, but our mind stays quiet, burning our past, rebuiding an improbable present, making a step in future, in that boat across the channel. Venice the city of lovers, the kiss under the bridges and all that staff, common places everybody intends to Know, when life seems so poor, and we find out inside ourselves many reasons to be fine, many reasons to carry on the fight, when fog surround us and we hardly know the next minute to come. There's no talent in my words, I've always been a woman of emotions, not a writer not a poet, nothing over. Loving him has always been my source of words.
In Venice me and my poet... I can fly over the boat, I can disappear into the waters that flow. I can turn myself into bright, brillant lights, were my splendor and hapiness measured by the intensity of my embrace. Feeling so free, against the night, moving my eyes to the intense palaces, we remain together me and my love in a boat that flies.
