Il Tiglio a Rocca San Felice, piantato nel 1789, amato e rispettato — Ph. Elisa Spinelli

The lime tree

The leaves tend toward the sounds,
A car in the distance, a door crunches:
It is the city that goes to sleep.
Words and laughter,
Sharp sentences and tears together.

He hears this human race
Who nothing know
But it does not shut down
While it launches
Quick movements of the lips.

The lime tree listen and not speak
He is freeze over the winter nights
On the mouth of a hug,
Who will not come.

The wind strikes,
grabs him:
the heart can not bear.
He shouts but they do not hear it,
Because it is not a lament.