by Marcello Comitini The shadows hidein the cracked skin of my fingers.These are gnarled branches of a cedarlonely on top of a mountain.At her feet lies motionlessa snowy landscapefurrowed by the muffled footsteps of a she-wolf.These are waving branchesstirred by an agonizing omentowards the horizon from which rises the nightand my hands are leavesthat the seasons …






