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And now I sit on the wood’s bed that now has your name
Now the Time is a careless Lord… 
He is sitting nearby and wraps himself in the jacket.
He breathes slowly not to break the spell. Not to wake her up.
Not to wake himself up.
He only dared to move the hair away from her face. And a gentle caress. Trace the face of her childhood. When, twenty years before, even then on the grass, he would have wanted to take her, hug her, confess to her that he loved her. And not only squeeze her hand and feel it slip out of his hand. Not see her go away. It didn’t happen like that. This time it will be different.
Sleep, my love.
It is almost dawn.
He rocked her, until he felt her relax. Let herself go. And the breath become regular.
It isn’t quiet, the wood. Tonight. In this evening of almost summer, that a breeze rises, slowly, from time to time. Moving the leaves.
It is neither dark. Little vague lights, on the riverside. Little lighthouses. The blurred eyesight. The water flows and it has covered their moans. Now it wraps the quiet.
Will we find again this place, in a few years, or tomorrow, if we will pass again by here? Will we remember everything, about today, about this evening, about the night in which we unite? Or will it be only the memory of the gestures, and we’ll forget the rest? To keep every recollection, images, sounds and not being able to find it again?
He covered her with the mantle.
He has no wish to think about tomorrow. About what will happen in a few hours.
It is what he has desired, all life long. And it is happened a short time before. Even if that time seems to him infinite, because he pursued it for years.
And it will be like that, from now on.
It has been gestures, almost silent.
It has been to learn, a kiss, another one. To brush with his kisses her wrists’ veins. The shoulders. To discover her.
Overcoming his own shyness, his own fears.
The shirt undone, now on the ground. When she ran a hand on his skin, under the fabric. And he felt like dying.
Then she intertwined her fingers in his, trying to follow his movements. His wonderful Oscar.
Her eyes in his eyes.
To never leave him alone.
Above them, an infinite vault of stars to cover them. Her hands on his back. To be surprised at her enterprising curiosity. To be moved.
And after, to wrap themselves in the tenderness.
Because the wait is not enough nor it is what has been. And wanting of it again. Holding her thigh, with the fear to not to find her again.
After have been looking for her for such a long time.
What will happen tomorrow… If tomorrow will come.
The Time is a careless Lord… 
It seems impossible to him being there, tonight, half naked, with her. His dream that becomes true.
To hide to make love in a wood, at past thirty. Two mad people. But sometimes the life tightens the strings and the curves of the time bend on you, even if you stubbornly missed them for ages. And tomorrow, the fear. Because he seems strong, tranquil. He seems not to lose his composure.
But he is afraid. Of what awaits them. And, maybe, of what they will have to face after the battle.
Today, the fear of the separation, of the intervention, of sending them to death, make everybody more willing. But, then there will be to fight, for them two. Tomorrow is the first step, then will come the more radical battle.
He moves aside the leaves with his hand, the fingers intertwined with the grass blades.
He peers at his clear skin, remembers when, before, he tried to compare it to hers. Then, he looks away.
Lucifer at dusk, and the star of the morning. And the anxiety grows inside him, in pain.
He hates that distant light, that swells up at the horizon, and he would like to be able to cry.
Because he wouldn’t want that today come to an end, tear himself away from this infinite and their own day.
The day that, in a year, they will celebrate as their anniversary.
And who knows what is awaiting them.
He wouldn’t want to sleep. He would like to wait to infinity for the dawn and not to lose a moment of these hours, without letting them pass. To enjoy every instant and that the light takes them again to this morning, in an infinite cycle.
Oscar is tired. Exhausted.
He felt her bones, under the skin. He doesn’t remember her to be so skinny, weakened.
Even the voice seems weaker. Hoarse.
Will he be able to say, one day, our wood, how it has been their bank? Like the dawns and the dusks of Arras? And the shore, in Normandy?
What a fear, Oscar… if this night, that is already ending, could last forever.
And I never leave you alone. And you never leave me…
Oscar, Oscar far away...
Oscar in the light breathing…
There will be time, enough life, to remember? To build another life together… without getting it wrong, with your love, now, that I only knew and believed in... with your body, your voice, now closer, that I don’t want to leave you never again. Never again.
My love, sweet and desperate.
To remember that afternoon, her fingers that ran over the ivories, her bended on the piano. And after, when, with a desperate glance, she took his hand, to not to leave it.
And she had kept looking down, without knowing how to find the right words. The gestures.
Because it was like she had a different determination, after he had seen the portrait. She seemed moved.
Then, slowly, she had sought for him, drawn him to her, slumping against his side, as if she was asking for refuge. And he had abandoned the doubts, and embraced her, tightly. As if he didn’t want to ever let her go.
It was the dusk.
And they had told each other, with a low voice, almost with fear, what they knew, what they had held back.
Holding each other tightly, in the rising semi-darkness. That was wrapping them.
Then, slowly, the fingers intertwined to hers, he crossed again that arch. Asking himself if that oath would have damned him. “I won’t do such a thing to you never again” He smiles because instead he will do to her many, infinite things, and he is sure that she won’t complain. For none of the infinite days to come.
His arm, the wall that divides them, her arm. And he crosses the arch. That ratifies the peace and the union.
It is like entering another world.
But this time the breathing is sweet. And the lips, warm, soft.
And the love, violent, now is light.
There wasn’t hurry, there wasn’t even anymore the time.
Only the fear for the coming hours. But they weren’t now. Now, only the two of them.
And slowly the fabric slips. And the fingers. Slow, clumsy, the movements.
The strings, the wrists. Hair. Her eyelashes, lowered, and her breathing that quickens.
He prays to be able to still see her. Again for a while. He breathes slowly.
“Don’t get me pregnant…” she told him, blushing. Hiding her face from his.
“Don’t worry…” he answered. And now smiles, at the memory of the discovery of these practical aspects of her.
He hopes only not to be proved wrong. The last famous words…
And if these embraces, and her holding him tight, hot, had repaired that wound, that ruined time, since then and since a life, he doesn’t know. Because he feels good, in her, in her arms, brushing her cheeks with his ones, getting lost in her hair. And he doesn’t want to think about sad things, not now. Now he wants to remember any instant, any breathing. Her lips on his shoulders, the thin fingers, the cold tip of her nose.
He remembers the window, when he opened his eyes. And she almost on top of him. He was amazed of how much she was light. Of how much her skin was delicate. Of how naturally she clutched at him. As if he was hers.
As if it was like that all along.
He felt, inside, an infinite pain, at the idea of interrupting this time. Of tearing himself away from her.
She was so beautiful.
Tomorrow will be an uncertain day of clouds and sun… 
She had like a sadness, on her, when she turned over, lazily, getting up. And he missed her terribly. A cascade of hair, and her place, warm, nearby. On which he rolled. Looking for her scent. Her memory. With the memory of her sighs. Of her words that almost are unable to come out. Shy. From her lips.
She remained silent, pensive. As if she was weighting an idea. Uncertain. The gestures slowed down.
Only after a lot of time, she returned to him. And she offered him her hand. As if she was sad.
“Take me away...” she thought. “Let's go”, she told him instead.
As if she had fought for a long time. Against herself.
And she had on her an infinite tiredness. Like a pain.
Then, between the trees she stopped.
She sought him. Taking refuge in that hug. “Let's go away, far away” she would have wanted to ask.
“I want you to go back at home” she told him instead.
“No. I'm coming with you, as always.” he answered to her.
She hug him, again. Hoping to distract him, to persuade him, to buy his absence. Hoping to have more power in the love than his stubbornness to not to leave her.
And, after, after the love, she asked him again. And the answer didn't change. Would she have been deluded, if had been different? Or would have hoped it?
Love is a sad game of disappointments and expectations, that not to betray them would harm.
“I certainly can't change now...”
He smiles, reassuring, but he's afraid. He too. And holds her in his heart.
He lets go the leaves, opening the fingers. He narrows his eyes, watches them fall.
Tomorrow... already today. 
Because I read the fear, in your eyes. And you in mine.
And tomorrow will be terrible. But we will be together.
Tomorrow will be a new day.
He doesn't hold back the tears. He doesn't feel ashamed of crying. Tonight has the life before him. Tonight he became hers.
Tomorrow, he will find a way, two lines for his journal. For the day in which he became hers. The first of the days.
Tomorrow, when the battle will be over, he will win the shyness, and will ask her to marry him. He doesn't know if there will be a right moment, a way, but he will find it.
And maybe she won't say no. If she will understand that it is love and not possession, share and not abuse.
If she will realise that it is the promise of not losing each other. Never again.
Tonight, already tomorrow, he feels like a king. This evening his dreams came true. Now nothing can divide them anymore.
Laura, 27-28 March 2007
Translation Bradamante/Beta reading Daydreamer
Note: The idea came out when, on Tuesday 27 March, commenting in an email and then in the blog the Toei’s trailer, I ironized about the merchandising and then I asked myself: fireflies or comfortable double bed? I began thinking about… during a long after dinner, while piles and piles of plates were waiting for me – and it might be possible that everything came out in order to not to wash them -, seeing again the trailer scene in which Oscar, prostrate, walks through the rubble, (I liked it, I must say), while, listening to de André songs, I was working at the doujinshi and at the fanfiction Alternate BK, I started writing. Then I corrected. Revised. And here we are. Even if I would never have thought to face the great cues of Lady Oscar, like the episode 28 or the love night – in my opinion Alessandra in Liberaci dal male and Sydreana in Storia di nebbia e d’occhi chiusi already said everything about the subject. And instead, lately, it happened…
Bradamante, and thanks to Daydreamer who revised the translation.
Laura, 27-28 marzo 2007, Pubblicazione sul sito Little Corner della traduzione del novembre 2007
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 F. de André, Hotel Supramonte, 1981.
 F. de André, Hotel Supramonte, 1981.
 F. de André, Hotel Supramonte, 1981.
 Tribute to Liberaci dal male by Alessandra.
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