The dawn of the oak

The oak tree scrutinises us.
It has no self-awareness,
but acquits itself of the swarming of bodies
that haunt the path
It observes with a dystopian, tetragonal eye
with resinous conjunctiva,
the eddies of wind and the hopes of schoolchildren.

I imagine the community of oaks
that cannot march towards wax suns
and does not feel the need to.
We would like to be those oaks
and not remember the farewell to the friend
and the parent, who waits
the flaming pupils on the edge
of the shadow that guards a tombstone.

Then the cheerfulness of contended gestures returns,
the dirge of the sub specie aeterniatis
and the loggia of the sanpietrini,
where you play
coins of fortune
to scratch with your nails.

Eternal love remains,
the coffeepot bivouacking on the fire
and emits blackbird calls,
the image of a woman
who gets out of bed
wearing your shirt.

Beautiful,
but too temporary to wish
to one day see the sunrises of Antares