117. Il fiore della gioventù

Frost melts in the morning sun:
it is beginning and the
end.

Everything is just as always,
and it will be, evermore;

On the final days,
when silence looms more present on the distant fields,
there does not seem to be enough
to count the branches and their
geometry

the blades of grass
or their migrant residents

there was only time for so much
before the moment is lost and
replaced, cycling
nowhere and
evermore.