Not much is my life as the poor room that houses every night my dreams. In the morning there penetrates from the garden a shy ray and trembles the wagtail under the umbrella of the pine waiting for my gift.
I open the palms of the hand and throw breadcrumbs uttering words in a new language that the heart invents.
Poem by RENATO NALE in Italian Language Read by Bastianina Campus Translated into English Language, Published, Printed by Bastianina Campus