Not the day torn apart by lightning
that lights up the wall with brambles,
or the sullen eyes of brothers
in back streets with an absurd, empty gaze,
will be able to restrain the strenght of my hand
when my shouts break up all the clouds
up to the virgin reaches of the skies.
My hands rise to wipe away the drops
from my tear-filled eyes.
I canno longer live without
bursting the banks of the silent river;
I can no longer live
without climbing up.
Lime, glass, blood close my hands...

Giuseppe Caprara