DP ( / )

The Wait

Watching out the window,
assertive all around;
caring to each brush and whisper:
every sneaky little sound.

Feeling all about me,
every subtle shake.
To each stir and-every sway
my senses burst awake.

What's a piece of paper?
What's it to a man?
Could it matter ever so much
in-my living span?

Could it be the sender?
I'll tell you what's the key.
The only certain problem here
is the very troubled me.

A letter is a letter,
lengthy as you want;
a letter is a timid missive,
not a cruel haunt.

What's then in the meaning
(hidden deep inside) ?
What could bend a man so much
and demolish all his pride?

What if really up there,
fixed upon that stake,
lies the solemn, grave decision:
life to him will give or take.

He is forced to suffer,
to-fate's will he's bound.
His agony depends on his huffy senses:
each smell, each single sound.

by Daniele Pinna

Other poems of PINNA (17)

Comments (0)

There is no comment submitted by members.