Orange blossom morning

Dani raises her look to the sun

so defiant and carefree as always,

blinding drivers and cyclists with the brightness of her mane

that has been playful

since the first dawn wind.

It seems like I could see her from my window

five thousands miles away

walking barefoot thru the avenue,

with her slept heels hanging on the purse

while she looks at herself

in every showcase on the street;

it seems like the spring arrived as orange blossom

when she whispers to the flowers

the same words

that my ears yearn every evening

as smoke.

It's that

she is the recurrent morning goddess

who awakes you from death

with just the touch of her fingers,

she's the static afternoon shadow

that hides scared between passengers

and tiny crowds

those that miss, unknowngly, the fervor of her eyes,

she's the cold burning snow,

she's the reason of madness,

she's the white lady for those who spent a whole life

fighting,

waiting for their stroke of luck.

On her way she smiles to the paving stones

and offers a cute wink

to the breeze that takes the seagull's wings

into the sky,

she rehearses beautiful ballroom dances

jumping at the beat

that scapes from the windows at the traffic jam,

she smiles to the old ladys

behind the curtains,

she inspires flashforwards

into the kids that go to school

and will ask to go for a wee.

Dani walks at the rithm of butterflys

and sometimes stops and kneels

and takes a missing piece

from an extrange heart,

she keeps them in a small sterling silver casket,

as witchery she takes them on her hands,

repairing the past with her breathe,

breast-feeding with love the oblivion that hope never releases and

when everything has healed

she set 'em free

to fly free

with the free birds.

Because she,

she is the recurrent morning goddess

who awakes you from death

with just the touch of her fingers,

she's the static afternoon shadow

that hides scared between passengers

and tiny crowds

those that miss, unknowngly, the fervor of her eyes,

she's the cold burning snow,

she's the reason of madness,

she's the white lady for those who spent a whole life

fighting,

waiting for their stroke of luck.

And when Helios starts to ride the sky

she finally arrives home

and walks around the

hole room like a cat

before lying down

and there, on the ground, stays the cold

and it's raining from the ceiling

and under the sheets

a river is born.