The Exile

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It is the place I return to.Lying awake nights I imaginethe wind just back from the cypress treesbrushing me lightly as Istep from the house;

in the garden the leaves are speaking ofroads that empty into stillness.

July; each star wants us to see through it& find the universe.

I will walk up the road behind the house& think of a young boy running in & outthrough the doors of darkness, calling hisfriends by name; his friends call back, leapinginto the tall grass to meet him.

I return to the house. From a window, a womanshouts for the boy to come in.

I feel sorry for herlike the fool that I am,like the man I will never be.

© Pier Giorgio Di Cicco