A child pointed at the sky, made it his, 
and then he points at the one he loves 
and suddenly it’s his sky,

because if he does not seize it’s out of love 
out of the living, humble hand 
which knows, recognizes the theft 
but doesn’t ask forgiveness, and loves:

he beautifies nothing, does not expect 
act after act, always more present here 
near his wool, his sweater. . .

now, on the sand, 
in the human circle round the clothes 
the water that invites swimming 
doesn’t wait, is not old 
and finally the tender gesture 
that one receives in the waves 
is not just for him.