Appunti di viaggio

WHERE DO THE WILD BERRIES GO? di Amy Catherine Martin

To Matera

‘Where do the wild berries grow?’
Asked the young bird.
‘Someday you’ll see little one,
Someday you’ll know.
You’ll see,

Under the stars, under the moon,
We’ll be thinking about this soon.’
The little bird went on its way,
Swearing that, come what may,
It will find where the berries laid their head,

When Morpheus welcomes the lone and the damned, to take them to bed.

The streetlights were strung together
Like falling constellations

Cascading into drinks, as they toast down below.
‘Where did the wild berries grow?’
As the bird flew, it soon came to find,
That the sweetest of berries were oft
Beyond the shackles of our mind.
Dawn turned to dusk, dust gathered ‘round,
As the yew berries blossomed, the young bird found

Not all that ends is lost,
And not all that is lost is gone.
At last, dear reader,
Now that night has come to stay,
And our bird has found its way,
Where do the wild berries go?