My Language Space Poetry

My Language

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