Your second visit to the land of Ricoltore

«Why, like a stationary acolyte, did you endeavor your flight in dream to the flat land of Ricoltore?

And the land of Ricoltore is home of the Bird of Jove: fowl, human, totem and insignia of the Roman Empire on the dry verandas of Kabylie.

And you didn't need to move a muscle to fly, because Æolian is the wind of the night, cerebral or electric.

Partial was your presence on those yellow camps irrigated with olive oil: a moisturizing breeze caressed your face as soon as you arrived, and the bird-man totem observed you, surreal and static under the inert atmosphere. Because he was a figurine made of papier-mâché, though he smelled like softened meat, and his wings were erect in iridescent feathers, like the feather of the vympire

and you walked in the torrid air of the day, tall and white like a candle.


In oneirology, like a stationary acolyte you left that cuboid comarque:
now you fall out, reimbursing your eyes into the black cosmos of the return


on your dawn street, the bony cassowary sings for your dormant ears.»