Page 4 - THE BOOK DEMO

dwindling Bergolo locals that dropped from 245 to 77
in just 20 years from 1960.

Yet, this ephemerality is often associated with the
purest of beauties. Bergolo was the place in which
the bounds between strangers were not devalued by
appearances: a little Eden, whereby 35 poets
experienced the joy to be seen, to be read, to read,
and to fully understood. In this tiny town in Northern
Italy, a glimpse could hide unimaginable treasures,
precious stones through a cave. Eyes so deep
cannot be held on a shallow flat-screen.

Piles of white papers; hundreds of shapes of iris
colour. Our speeches with the mountains, blinded by
the fog, made us wiser. We learned how to shine by
watching the stars in the moonless nights. In this
quiet location, we were the stone thrown in a smooth
lake. The salty water by which flowers grow.

A whispered conversation no translation is needed
for.

Teary eyes, lashes touching lashes, my hand, your
hand, the thoughts my mind suggested now belong
to you, who have become a guardian of all the
secrets confessed with unspoken words.

Here is our book. Read it at leisure, or read it in haste,
or pick one piece and reject the rest, or follow a
thread, or forget us and pass it on.

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