When the western sky took its orangy pinkish bluish connotation
And the moon like a page from nursery rhyme rose...
he thought he heard footsteps tired...
From his table facing the piazza
Back towards the door
Of the front parlour...
Francesco could feel
which footstep mean what...
Cicero's steps are fast...
Jaya comes dancing...
And Donya's are thumping...
And Isabel's...
they are noiseless...
Apparent...
Yet noiseless...
'buona sera...'
Francesco greeted without rising...
There was no reply...
'But i think i am right...
there must be she around...'
he thought...
'buona sera...'
repeated Francesco...
Still there was no revert...
As if the He up there had fallen silent...
Francesco without turning worked on
His table had papers filled...papers torn...
Had pilgrim's progressive graph derived...
Had a picture of a Dreamworks presentation
A kid with his fishing rod
Sitting comfortably over a sickled moon
Dropping his fishing line...through clouds...
Minutes elapsed...
To become hours of work...
Evening made an ascent to night...
Finally being satisfied with his papers
When Francesco thought of quitting for the night...
A chip of nail he found...
On the floor beside him...
And the door was open wide...
he then just smiled...
And prayed...
'bestow calm...
Upon her
Just that...
Calm...
Of the whole world...
And no blood marks...
From toes...
Like nails hammered home...
Christ...
Just that take as my prayer...'
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