L'ULTIMA POESIA

The voice sounds like it's coming from afar, thru the evening light and the smell of salt. The words are not so much spoken as exhaled, like a confession that has long become a quiet habit of being ill. Every "still" feels tired, but also the tenderness that won't let go, even when the mind has already let go. Music flows like an old, unaddressed letter: the lines are a bit faded, the ink has blurred, but between them lives the memory of a person who is no longer expected, yet is still remembered. And it makes it feel a little warmer, as if the heart whispers to itself: "it may hurt, but it's beautiful."