The wind is slamming the shutters
against the iron canals into the walls:
it's a chaotic and incessant ticking
which brings to the mind the Bethian castanets,
dancing a brakeless flamenco, lacking
any harmony, violating
the muffled peace of the living room.
praise be to you, beloved shelter,
warm during the winter, fresh in summer,
which save me the from the hostile hands
of Nature, always enemy to humans.
i laugh at the hate of the gusts
and at the endless energy they waste:
i'm seriously thinking to channel it
into a pacid, rotating helix.