All of a sudden the sky, the atmosphere, the light itself, have turned yellow, and a strong wind, like the blow of an angry and evil god, is severly bending the trees and wiping from the ground, at a great speed into the air, all the dust and sand and leaves and dirt it finds on its way. But not a drop of water has come down from the heavens.
Not yet.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

Now the yellow has turned into dark bronze, the wind has died still, and a single blinding lightning, and a single deafening thunder, have made loose the wrath of the sky, pouring down with rage all its liquid arrows.


Last night I dreamt of Agnes.
I dreamt of Agnes and the dream was like this: I had arrived to a building, like a school or an institute, that could be the academy where we knew each other, though it wasn’t; that could also be the headquarters where I did the military, though it wasn’t, either. Maybe it was only a department I had never known, or a university I had never gone to. Its walls were terra-cotta coloured, the same colour of the place where I’m staying these days.
I came in through the glazed doors, which led to a wide corridor wherein there were some people, neither too old nor too young; they could be students or teachers, employees or customers.
By the first door on the corridor stood Agnes, like a pupil who waits for the teacher to come, or like a teacher who waits for the pupils to get in; or just like a clerk who steps out of her office and looks, observes, thinks.
Agnes and me. I don’t know who first noticed whom, or if we noticed each other at once; nor can I say whether she was waiting for me, or I was looking for her, though rather we didn’t know at all that we were going to meet. However, on catching her eye I walked towards her like if she had been the only pourpose of my being there; like if an order, coming from an indefinite somewhere, had pushed me to assist, had pushed her to wait. And none of us showed any surprise.
Despite dream’s usual deceitfulness, she was Agnes, no doubt. Now red haired and a bit slimmer, but Agnes she was. As pretty as always, as young as always, time seemed to have ignored her.
I came to her and, like if our eyes had agreed before our mouths could speak, or rather like if it was a routine, understood, natural and expected, we hugged and kissed like a couple would do. And in this way, her chin on my shoulder, mine on hers, she told me I love you only an instant before I told her I love you. Our voices crossed in the air, and we both sighed, like if relieved of a fear that had just abandoned us.
Then she asked me, or maybe I just could hear her thought: Why?
Staring at her eyes I replied that perhaps I had loved her since we first met. And she: why hadn’t you told me before?
Because I hadn’t realize. Because I didn’t know… But you, since when you love me?
Oh!, you know it too well: I’ve always loved you.
No, I didn’t know that. Her big, bright, beautiful eyes had lost the funny, slight oscillation of the pupil they use to have, but the new red hair and undulating hips made her look great.
We hugged tight again, and long kissed each other, not bothering about the people, who seemed to not bother about us, nor even see us. I said to Agnes: and we’re still in time, aren’t we?
Of course she replied, we’re still in time; we’re still young.
But are you real? I insisted. Won’t you fade away like a dream when I wake up? Are you actually here, and you love me?
You see that I’m here; you see that I’m real. Aren’t we seeing and touching each other?
I know. It’s just that I almost can’t believe this sudden bliss.
Well, then in any case said she, don’t worry: if you fall asleep, even if you’re actually sleeping now, and dreaming, when you wake up you’ll know that I love you.
Yes, Agnes, I will; and, much more important yet, I’ll know that I love you.
I don’t remember how or when my dream ended. Maybe it blurred away when mi hands tried to explore the most delicate parts of her body.