Kowka War Zone. A wood shelter.

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Ci ritrovammo in un campo vermiglio, e di li, poco più avanti a noi, e a mano mancina, c’era un piccolo fortino in legno vissuto e sghembo, quasi fosse una timida rimessa per anime.
A ben vedere lo era, un piccolo bastione di anime disperse o ferite,
incuneato fra la luce e la tenebra ingentilito da filari di rose selvatiche e tappeti di violette, un rifugio per sogni timidi in volo radente, o fantasmi della tramontana.
Ripescammo i nostri ricordi più belli mentre gli zaini scivolavano giù senza resistenza dalle spalle arcuate, anche se tu non avevi spalle arcuate o zaino,
mentre ci accucciavamo sull’erba allentando le stringhe degli scarponi,
benché tu non indossassi scarponi, ritrovammo un poco di pace,
sebbene io l’avessi persa da tanto tempo, o da sempre, o da quando sogno da solo sul campo vermiglio, accanto al ligneo fortino d’anime intarsiato fra trincee scivolate di lunghi o perenni sonni, fra l’erba e margherite, sogni fracassati e impennate d’impossibile coraggio e monumentali dignità, salve di pensieri
oltre le cataratte del mondo, carne ossa e nervi riarse alla vita,
tutto e niente, qui, non c’è sipario che tenga se non il vissuto.

 

We found ourselves in a vermilion field, and from there, just ahead of us, and left-handed, there was a small wooden fort lived and crooked, as if it were a timid garage for souls.
On closer inspection it was, a small bastion of lost or wounded souls,
wedged between light and darkness softened by rows of wild roses and carpets of violets, a refuge for shy dreams in low flight, or ghosts of the north wind.
We scoured our best memories as backpacks slid down without resistance
from arched shoulders, even if you had no arched shoulders or backpack,
while we crouched on the grass loosening the strings of our boots,
although you were not wearing boots, we found a little peace,
although I had lost it for a long time, or always, or since I dream alone on the vermilion field, next to the wooden fort of inlaid souls between trenches slid of long or perennial dreams, among the grass and daisies, smashed dreams and surges of impossible courage and monumental dignity, salvation of thoughts beyond the cataracts of the world, flesh bones and nerves parched to life,
everything and nothing, here, there is no curtain that holds if not lived.

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