From the bridge's parapet is being freed
a seagull, treated for a long time:
you couldn't recognize, among that tender
and healthy plumage, all the wounds
that plunged their grim lances into its wings.
is it important, for the mankind,
that now it's flying, free and majestic,
among the loving fingers of the sunset?
there are so many seagulls, after all,
singing and scratching with their whiteness
the soft and uncontaminated blue
that since millenniums stands above Rome's hillls...
it's anyway nice to think that somebody
takes care of a poor wounded creature
and saves the life of my younger brother.