Trafika Europe 14 - Italian Piazza

The Plant of Dreaming

A wind that kneads me with hot gas, that melts my soles while I pick: what stone recalls you, the sound of what siren.

Now is the time of the mine, clay grazing my head,

hard language, lamp gone out. Stairs in the rock claw the bottom, where

skin sweats stones, gurgles the heart.

We go down the shaft along a trail of pyrite crumbs, go down with our eyes, knees, go down to trail the trace, drop marking the rock

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