The Angel comes along the silent path
of the public park, on Christmas night:
his feet are not grazing the white snow,
which steps aside, respectful and light,
at his immaculate wing's flitting;
far off, downtown, already burst the bangs
fron uncorking sparkling wine bottles,
and wishes coming out from stained smiles.
a tramp on a bench is tossing for cold,
within a bed of papers and cardboards:
the Angel points his finger, giving warmth,
and the poor guy,s dreams get some colors.
there are then some pigeons, round grey balls
of plumes all inflated against the cold,
wondering why on Earth God the Father
just had to cook up the winter, and, for Him,
it was not enough to have created
already other three pleasant seasons.
tha Angel smiles compliantly, because
he knows the reasons why, but can't thell them.
before the park ends among the meadows,
there'are two statues, called "the sweethearts",
they are naked and beautiful, and don't feel cold,
under their flesh of frozen white marble
only the Angel can hear the subdued beat
of hearts which don't accept to give it up,
and rewards them with his sweetest smile:
he then flies upwards, to bring there the load
of such a beautiful dream, that never
could be considereb ended forever.