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La sera del poeta è la sera di tutti.
Quando il sole basso ha colori di sogno e le nuvole sono le linee disegnate dalla mano di un artista che riconosco.
La sera del poeta è sera di silenzio dolce. Di un'anima che si riposa in se stessa.
Il vento leggero porta una pace impossibile e le scie dei voli internazionali lasciano scritte illeggibili.
Nelle campagne, i piccoli passi di corsa sui pavimenti di legno rieccheggiano in un'eco gaia di amate case vuote.
La sera del poeta è la sera del colore del grano.
Un bicchiere di vino rosso, mezzo pieno, è posato sul tavolo della cucina.

Nella sera del poeta, io aspetto te sola.
Attendo seduto sulla mia brutta sedia comoda, e guardo il mondo cambiare nel suo tempo di pace.
In un piccolo sorso di vino rosso, aspetto te, ma è come se tu fossi già seduta sulle mie ginocchia e, sorridendomi gentile, mi ripetessi ancora una volta quanto ti piace la sera, in quel momento perfetto di sentimenti vaghi.

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