Marta ci vede
One o’clock, hot silence, heat wave. Thoughts like flies on a wet day.
While parking in the shade of the pines, I realize that I went as far as the sea. How long have I not been here? Maybe since the last time I took Marta with us.
The pines exhale the smell of heated resin, of needles crushed under rubber slippers, of dust. If she were here, Marta would drink the air with her nostrils like a filly, tilt her head to the side to listen, touch the bark of the…