Cavatina

In the smallish spaces
Between crests of fictions,
The glassy moments slide

Their alternating clouds
Across a half-burned slope
Leaning over the road.

Everything is transformed
By a necessity
To keep on transforming,

And between the few cars
Gliding down to sunset,
What sound like the last birds

Left in an emptied land
Trill their familiar calls
From living and dead pines.

What can a small song mean
To a mind that can’t speak
Without slightly burning?