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"but there is...." But, yes, it's there, hope. it crosses the park at evening and perches silently on your shoulder as one by one the streetlamps are switched off. it sidles up to you lost in thoughts, presses a tiny palm against your cheek. it frightens you? look closer. she's as white as air. and there she'll bee when you've shut your eyes - amidst these voices, these lifeless limbs she's the little girl with spindly arms who leans out, leans outs inside your dreams. erminia passannanti (translated by Martin Wilmot Bennett, Rome, 2001 original poem, 1992, translation 2001