Summer

It rains. Summer has been Autumn. Waiting for Summer it rains. Life brings little poetry. Silence, wet and grey prevail. An image from Gabriel Garcia Marquez' One Hundred Years of Solitude pops into my mind: it rains and mold grows on the skin. No poetry: a scrap of d'Annunzio learnt long ago crosses my memory :

E piove su i nostri volti silvani,
piove sulle nostre mani ignude,
sui nostri vestimenti leggieri,
su i freschi pensieri
che l'anima schiude novella,
su la favola bella
che ieri m'illuse,
che oggi t'illude

Approximate translation:

And it rains on our forest self,
it rains on our naked hands,
on our summer clothes,
on our souls' newly born
refreshing thoughts,
on the pretty tale
once an illusion to me
an illusion today to you.