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The death of Lily

The sky was still asphalt. The grass was still green, populated only spiders unemployed. The Alibre was a fossil.
And Lily was dead.
Her body was stiff and cold, as the painful sense of immobility that comes down on the timpani in prolongation of silence.
was dead.
mortis is the stiffness made her a white statue, fallen from the pedestal and lying in the grass of the lawn finally, under the sky of asphalt.
Lily was dead.
Death had won on the entry of spiders and bats.
in its orbit, there were still two small mirrors broken. Two opaque mirrors now reflected only the dust and the dust would soon shut down any glare. Perhaps a child, yet, he could write on something with a finger. Because children can not resist the instinct to write in the dust and condensation on the glass. The condensation of tears acted as glue to the powder. Lily was crying, in total silence, while hardly resistance to death. Until the silence had tightened the diaphragm. As long as the apnea, longer and longer, she had breathed her last breath. As the lawn that evaporates in the dawn. As the damp breath of a whale, the strange mammal that none of the mammals 'mammal' would say.
So Lily, the strange creature that lived where no one lives among the living would say there was, was dead.
Lily was dead, nonostante la primavera e tutto quel suo cantare e sbocciare.
Lily era morta, nonostante i telegiornali e i pareri degli esperti sui fatti di cronaca e sulla politica internazionale.
Lily era morta, nonostante le parole, sopra il cielo d'asfalto, si sprecassero copiosamente.
Perché Lily non aveva mai vissuto per questo.
Sotto il cielo d'asfalto non arrivavano le stagioni a cambiare il paesaggio, ma le storie raccontate spingevano i giorni come sopra le stagioni muovono il tempo. E l'immaginazione cambiava forme e colori.
Ma le parole non si erano più posate sull'Alibro per raccontarle delle storie.
E Lily era morta.

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The awakening of the volcano

Lily's breathing seemed to be to win the game of silence. The intervals between breaths were so rare that only 'time when we get bored' could have looked more lungo.Gli Lily's eyes were drying out and had lost the light. Her pupils were a shattered mirror. Like dreams.
The prolonged absence of the stories had given all'Alibro the weight of lead and lead two wings no longer fly anyone or anything. But those who still had two functioning wings that came out took the tunnel under the sky at a speed of asphalt that runs a shiver down my spine. Who was called the bat? Who, in total silence that seemed, had made me feel? Not the spiders, who had their work cut. Lily gave a reminder of ultrasounds done. A song that seemed to slow a hymn to life. The song of those who try to survive the silence can only be ultrasonic.
The bat knew that his only task at that time was to get Lily to tell her a story. And this was precisely what he did.

There was a volcano that was silent for centuries. His sleep seemed to have the time of eternity. But nothing is forever, even the stones, which seem to turn to dust sooner or later. The volcano was an old man who had fallen asleep with his mouth open and when he woke from his sleep lo fece tossendo, con la gola secca, sputando piccoli grumi incandescenti che prepararono la strada al fiume di lava. Come per chi ha trattenuto e omesso troppe volte qualcosa che era invece da dire, il fiume uscì urlante e inaspettato dalla sua bocca, travolgendo e zittendo tutto quello che gli stava intorno. Come un vecchio che fa andare avanti il mondo come gli pare finché, un giorno, non riesce più a tacere e con la sua saggezza sparge il silenzio sul rumore disordinato che lo circonda, paralizzando tutto perché possa ricominciare da zero, pensando bene ai passi e al terreno da calpestare come fanno i bambini quando imparano a camminare da soli. Perché il vulcano era vecchio and even more than he was old planet.
That now looked like a volcano god punishing or his servant. His hand was not able to fall so far from the village tap. The lava carved a rock garden where there was vegetation, barren land on the moon a carpet. Some animals are grabbing the role of fossils for posterity. The villagers learned under, at least for the days of the eruption, which must be awe and respect to nature. And if after it is forgotten, however, would have been able to remember. That is not quite as 'not knowing'. And the town was aware of his position, which was not as 'central'. It was left under the slope of a volcano.

When the bat was gone, Lily was breathing less often.

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The window blind

Again. It had happened again. Alibre paste the pages, there were no stories to tell. Lily is a doll that transformed the ice. A doll that moves only his eyes. That his eyes were so big in the wilderness to hold the whole sky of asphalt that was over her and over her lawn. That the lawn is populated by spiders. That caresses the spiders were imperceptible to Lily, despite the rapidity of whooping otto-multiple zampette nel dispensarle. Che il respiro di Lily fosse così lieve e così raro che se fosse stata in mare, anziché sul prato, avrebbe potuto toccare il fondo degli abissi senza le bombole d'ossigeno. Perché di ossigeno non ce n'era lì intorno, perché 'ossigeno' per Lily sono le storie. E le storie non arrivavano più, da giorni.
Poi, il cielo d'asfalto condusse fino a Lily un pipistrello. E una piccola storia arrivò. Una piccola storia che le riempì i polmoni dandole la forza ancora per un respiro. Che soffiò lieve dalle narici, così lieve che i ragni che le stavano sotto il naso neppure se ne accorsero. Ma Lily sentì una storia. Una piccola storia in un canto di ultrasuoni.

There was a window overlooking a corner in the suburbs. And a corner in the suburbs is not the world. It 'a piece of the extreme edge of the city. What city has the only zip code. The patrons of a suburban corner, day, men are often at rest. And often there is a bar there on the corner. A bar with no kitchen, because at lunch the visitors all go home. But all this happens out of the corner he was in front of that window. On that corner there was only a light pole that was left off the night for several years. The lid of a blind pupil was left open showing only their blindness. A run-down flag. If he were a tree was felled. Without lymph electrical wires parched, baked by the seasons. Roots of a modernity that had no right time, with the entire periphery. Skeletons of unfinished buildings. Old abortions. The family had not grown. The factories had not survived the decade and the suburbs had not opened the doors. The city had been far more than elsewhere.
The window had no glass. It was a geometric patch in memory of the defeat of artificial project. If he had glasses, that window could have thought. Reflecting the movement. Reflect the life of a suburban corner. But the world outside the window was paralizzato. Con lui il futuro della periferia, di conseguenza. E se ora la finestra non rifletteva niente, era forse perché qualcuno, prima, non aveva riflettuto abbastanza. E non era per errore umano. Perché non è completamente vero che mancare di riflessione sia un errore. Non si riflette spesso per la fretta di concludere, per pressione, perché c'è altro da fare. La conclusione diventa l'inconcludenza. Perché la città, che è lontana dagli angoli di periferia, arriva invece nei pensieri con i suoi ritmi e i suoi ingorghi. E accade che si giri a vuoto intorno alle sue rotonde, perdendo la direzione da prendere.

Lily si accorse con ritardo che il pipistrello non era più in volo sopra di lei. He heard only a sudden silence, he returned to fill your head with cotton wool. The silence of the perceptions around her back as if the snow fell, more distance each echo in the world. Lily now had time to reflect. Even from that position still, without thinking, he could lose direction. He must find the way of the voices that tell the stories.

A story for Lily, still breathing ... that could dissolve as the sun consumes the snow in tears. Flakes of tears that melts.