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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.

Those of you who want to talk to a ghost?