What Happens When You Stop Taking Ramipril

[MY DREAM IS NOT IN THE FOUR SEASONS ... ]




My dream is not in the four seasons.

not winter,
pushing tired next to radiators
ice and splashes of gray hair already.
And in bonfires, on the outskirts
pandemics in error, do not smoke
of Hell lapping the eaves
and even Christmas tree
that survives, perhaps, only in the prisons.


My dream is not in the spring
the age of which we speak ancient fabulari,
and not in the branches that are struggling to put feathers
tinnulo cry and not in the woodchuck
when overlooks from its hole,
and even in the unfolding of the taverns and crotti
illusion that now no more rain
rain or perhaps elsewhere, who knows where.


My dream is not summer
neurotic false illusions and ominous moons,
in phantom black scarecrow
and trammel netting ripped from the dolphins,
not in the glare of her sultry mornings ,
and not in the underwater wanderings
of those sinks with him and his past.


My dream is not autumn
Fumic, Winey, found
only in calendars or fairs
of Blackbeard, not in the black
lightning evening processions
harvest or liturgical, in the cry of the peacocks in
around the mills, nell'intasarsi
of the larva and the dormouse.


My dream never rises from the womb
seasons, but nell'intemporaneo
living where they die reasons
and God knows he had time; os'era useless.


Eugenio Montale_Le Seasons