A Summer Song Poem by Alexandro Johns

Green in the air,
the fingers of the wind
play on a piano,
and white horses
gallop in the blue sky:
it is Summer

Under my feet
the ground is eager,
I listen to the roots
working tireless
in the hot forest
where lived the God Pan,
by moments,
I become a bucolic poet
or buffoon without contempt

The taste of my dreams
cease to be sour,
I'm recovering
in the scent of ripe fruits
my forgotten paradise,
and thanks to the grapes
drunk with sun
that fall in the generous Summer cup,
I'm alive once again.