Last night I dreamt
you called me from New York.
For a moment the picture
was reversed: you were
looking for me, trembling,
to see how I was, but in fact
only to hear my voice.
I said hello
with a tired roar, and you,
you had to tell me who you were,
so I'd recognize you,
something that bothers you so much.
I quickly asked: where are you,
and can't recall the rest,
but try to imagine it.
I asked you what you were wearing,
and at your description I replied:
I know that different ages are closed to each other
like the castes at the time of Ancient Egypt.
"You lack the wealth of our more remote memory",
seems to cry a high dignitary, blocking the entrance door.
But here, I hear a step dragging
in the library, different from the others,
and two lips flapping unintentionally;
an old professor proceeds bent, with glasses on,
an obtuse and haughty look.
And then I don't regret anymore not having known
the war, not being older, only
to have met you when we both
were twenty years old.