To S.

by Gabriella Garofalo

Blue jazz, not red, they’re coming
After her as she’s acting coy, 
Voices made sharp when raiding
Trees, or unforgiving waters hissing
Against her first roots, a desire for words-
Shout them out, shout names, stares,
Freeze the fear all over light, stop falling voices,
Steer clear of a weird green 
Among the trees lining streets,
But don’t look if they ask you
Is the rain hiding in your pockets, 
If only snow lies in them- 
Just leave those silly old questions
To desire, will they give up, or will the grass disperse?
No, when God shouts your name 
Young hours of light shall fade away,
And you won't bite your scattering light
When dawn breathes hard, clashing days-
Hold your voice, don’t let her hide
If only among the trees lies silence,
While from new shapes wrath is arising,
And yes, her gaze turns into grass,
Too bad it can’t wound life, nor your sky,
Only two girls shifting each other
For a bit of light, or grass-
By the way, why don't they shout?
Simple as that, look, they’re playing, 
So no voice can rise-
But what about the people over there?
Sadly, they are all gone by now.

Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella Garofalo fell in love with the English language at six, started writing poems (in Italian) at six and is the author of these books “Lo sguardo di Orfeo”; “L’inverno di vetro”; “Di altre stelle polari”; “Casa di erba”; “Blue Branches”; “ A Blue Soul”, “After The Blue Rush”.