Gianni Casagrande
BOTANY
 
A white blood cell
pushes me against the wall.
I did not invent myself for you.
 
 
How contrasts
with the sky
my skin!
My eyes are streaked
from a thick fabric
of small veins.
It must be because of the sun,
or the wind,
or smoking.
I'm fine,
It's nice to hear
the caress
of the rays of the sun
that in the morning 
they are hesitant
and shy
like looks,
while
they touch my skin.
 
I expose myself to the sun,
tanning me,
with feet that stir
endlessly
endless sand grains,
producing
a light powder
that does not pose
never.
I know
that in the area where I am
there are no roots,
and I know it too
 
that every day is crossed
by remoras
scratchy like the shark skin.
All day
they drag themselves,
mumbling
their untiring suck.
 
Let that cloud
run in the sky,
talking mare
with crying eyes.
 I'm here,
in the removed earth,
stunned
from the fresh smell of rain.
 
The sky is closed
over us,
and keeps us
beautiful warm,
ready to bloom.
 
 
The water of the river
flows
and wet
my roots.
 
I will try not to rot.
 
I must not
uproot
nor try to walk,
dragging
my brown dress.
It is under the ground
the road
that I have to follow.