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Our hero set off? watchful,
among the desolate sidewalks...
in the rusty ambush of the sunset... what a wind...
a rancid taste of forgotten hotels...
our hero shuddered? hardened
in the colonial jacket...
the old world, stardust by now
sweating cold along the edges of the ring road...
entered? in the bar he asked for a beer
and looked at himself? in the mirror...
the barman said "I'm closing"...
and sent him? to hell...
go out? from the bar... comb?... spit? the American rubber...
and breathe? the fog, yes? the bitter fog
of the lower Po Valley...
we lost track of him for a week...
We found him again in an idiotic square
with his comical gait,
He coughed in code on dead leaves... yes, he took orders from garbage bags... he disguised himself? from a curbstone, stopped there? to spy...
but that woman at the window noticed it and closed the shutters...
it was only then that he felt loneliness shooting at his heart...
and the sound of a pirate saxophone far away,
and no other noise... what an evening...
we have lost track of him for an entire life...