The night is my most bitter enemy,
its cowardly bite inoculates me
the deadly poison of insomnia,
against which the only cure remains
to cover myself well up and go
onto the still patio, and to dance
a silent tarantella, that
does not agitate the body,
but the soul, when you look
at the starry sky of Burgundy,
a precious diadem, upon the head of God:
which watchmaker could ever invent
such a perfect mechanism, totally
forbidden to the eyes of the humans,
capable of keeping separate
the precious orbits of the jewels
of the immense galaxies and of the stars,
of the billions of billions of planets,
on one of which certainly exists
an alien woman, looking at the sky
and remains bewitched by the same
pityless, devastating enchantment,
that fills the soul and in an instant
paralizes the body, without knowing
that someone loves her golden hair
and her rare emerald green eyes,
and that, when our tired bodies
will no longer be able to host life,
we will both run in the space-time
one towards the other, to embrace us
and dig our nails into our backs,
behind the star Rigel, or Betelgeeuse,
and will understand the immense greatness
of the phantom mechanism of the stars.