THE
BALLAD OF THE FOOLISH
MY
WALKING IS FAINT,
A
TRACE LETS ON THE EARTH,
WHICH
DIES IN THE TIME,
TODAY
AND TOMORROW
WHAT’S
MATTER FOR CHRONOLOGY
IF
I NEVER WILL SEE THE STARS,
IF
MY HANDS WILL BECOME STONES
STONED
MY LOOK
ON
THE GRASS, WHEN SLIDES
A
SNAIL, SHE ISN’T IN A HURRY
TO ARRIVE TO NOWHERE.
DANILO TOMASSETTI 1999