How I wish I had your eyes,
wide open on the world like absorbent paper
and your laughter clean and full, almost without remorse
or repentance,
but how I wish I had to look at all
like the books to browse through
and still have everything, or almost everything, to try.
Culodritto, that go away safely,
transforming alive corsair chromosomes,
of Lombards, Celts and Romans of the ancient plain
of mountaineers,
Queen of the remotes,
of absolute gnosis that you assert and ask,
of suspicion and faith in the curious world of the adults.
Even if you will not have
my muddy fights on fields, courtyards and streets,
and you will not know
what taste has the taste of grapes stolen from a row,
soon you will notice
how easy it is to make a useless science software
and you'll see
what a confusing problem is to use one's own experience;
Culodritto, what do you want me to say?
Only it always costs effort
and life is always like that, but it is ancient history.
Culodritto, give me your hand again,
even if to hold it is just a pretext
to feel your total trust that no one has never given me,
or he ever asked me
Fly, fly you, where I want to fly
towards a world where everything is still to be done
and where everything is still, or almost everything, to be wrong.