ASK THE JOY

Mornings smell louder in the summer.

They sound of late Mondays and early Wednesdays.

They land on blushed faces. They sound like the crumbles of a tarallo.

Taste like sap and eggs

on a swing.

We sniff each other like animals, we nap too little, we dance too fast, we run high on molecules and blue skies. We decode the red sunsets and work for the happy days. Many. More.

When pink rocks fall off our bag, we sit to laugh and can't count the glue that dries off the ceiling.

If Chopin could speak he'd say words feel like coral red and fifteens. Bright. Dense. Bold. Sensual. Savoury souls. Madresilva, mi ricordo.

Daring, dazzling days and gusts of hot wind climbing layered peaks.

Poem: Ask the Joy, by Ludovica Mazzucato

Music: Rubinstein, Chopin Nocturne Op.27 No. 2 in D-Flat Major