Ivan Graziani
Piknic

THE REVIEW

And summer arrives. In a dreary world, it arrives. It must always come, even when we cannot yield to its warm embrace.

And summer crashes upon us, it can be felt even in the deepest corner of a beer can, perhaps sipped on a sultry night with lifelong friends.

And summer continues unconsciously—among those who play in the waves, those who get lost in them, and those who won’t see the waves for quite some time.

And summer writhes and dances under the stars of Ferragosto, beneath the fireworks launched from the other side of the Universe by who knows whom.

And summer tilts; the days grow gloomy, the waves become dunes, and the warmth of not long ago now lacks bite.

And summer withdraws, overcome with dismay; it has fulfilled its duty and now has nothing left to give.

A record plays, my island is here, and the life I have is reborn from here, from all the thousands of people in the square launching their small candle balloons, headed into the unknown. And I am reborn.