Boundaries

by Marcello Comitini

Absorbed in the light of dawn,
with docile courage I open
the gate to my garden,
which I cultivate with desperate perseverance
during the slow hours of the day.
I perceive the smell of the earth
turned like the page of the book
that I foolishly am trying
to print with my thoughts.
I measure the boundaries by hand, I check
that they are not imaginary or doubtful.
They stretch
from the foot of the mountains
to the waves of the seas
from the rocky shores of rivers
to the desolate last houses of the cities
from the first sands of the deserts
to the changing front of the glaciers
and again from the West to the East
from the infinite limits of the universe
to the mysterious heart of human beings.
I sit in the shade of the red maple
grown by others before I was born
as if they already knew
that the fire and those leaves
would ignite my desires.
Through the fog of the years
I look at the trees
that I started to plant at the age of twenty
following the illegible map of my dreams
the cut trunks the rotten fruits
and the flowerbeds which do not bloom
for more than a day
like my words
along the banks of the river-time
and my eyes and mind wander
from one boundaries to another of my life
that I persist in cultivating
as if the garden were the book that I dream
that I won’t be able to finish writing
that another will finish and will close
gate and book,
behind the glass of a tiny bottle.