In the city of floating dreams, the sunlight doesn’t exist.
The hours of dark follow each others one after another, in an everlasting night.
The only source of light of the city are small flames of wishes and promises that slide on the river, pushed by the nostalgic music of a piano that arrives from who knows where.
To kindle this wishes are the cold bony fingers of tired grannies who, from the dark, call in a whisper couples and children, offering them the light of a dream in exchange of a few Dong.
Their faces emerge from the shadow, they get shape from the meeting between the red light of the dreams and the black and deep wrinkles that melt in the dark of the night.
When somebody buys a wish, the granny, from the top of the bridge, lets it fall with her long stick, down till the river, and for every wish she sell, she lights another one.
to Irene
The hours of dark follow each others one after another, in an everlasting night.
The only source of light of the city are small flames of wishes and promises that slide on the river, pushed by the nostalgic music of a piano that arrives from who knows where.
To kindle this wishes are the cold bony fingers of tired grannies who, from the dark, call in a whisper couples and children, offering them the light of a dream in exchange of a few Dong.
Their faces emerge from the shadow, they get shape from the meeting between the red light of the dreams and the black and deep wrinkles that melt in the dark of the night.
When somebody buys a wish, the granny, from the top of the bridge, lets it fall with her long stick, down till the river, and for every wish she sell, she lights another one.
to Irene
