👉 Italiano

It was raining in Chefchaouen

It was raining in Chefchaouen.

But maybe I never noticed.

The paving was wet and reflective.

Was it perhaps a luminous scenography set up just for me?

Yet it looks like I had a hood. Or maybe that's not me.

Maybe it's just a sprite, good at populating a fantastic painting.

And the sky... Who looked at it!?

Relegated to the margins of the scene.

It hid,

obscured by all that blue.

Perhaps it wanted to diversify itself,

failing to stand up to comparison.

Even the fronds wanted to steal the stage from him.

What if the atmospheric vault decides to compete?

Could not.

The chromatic variety is a too vigorous opponent.

And the linguistic one, which adds magic.

And that hint of confusion.

I discover that here Spanish, as a second language, stands alongside

or perhaps even fights with French.

With my field of vision, I carve my beloved cats, which dot the streets,

as usually happens in countries with a Muslim majority.

They wisely manage their presence in the urban fabric.

The whole city is a canvas.

Even the most worn objects hurl a blow of color.

And the shadows participate out of physics duty, but almost with shame.

I immerse myself, I become a brushstroke.

I'm still there, atomized in the blue.

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