Marco Di Caprio

I woke a little while ago,
thinking of a painting.
I made it yesterday.
I was drawing a flower,
a red flower,
the same
I had seen
in my dream.

But now I remember:
as I colored it,
it grew dull,
mute,
closed in on itself.

Will  this flower
ever bloom again?

It was
the last leaf
of a winter tree,
weeping in the wind,
singing
an unheard melody.

And yet,
despite everything,
I will go on
coloring this flower,
because I do not want to die
without painting my dream,
this fragile dream
that keeps me awake
through the sleepless night
of the world.