It seems to see the fog that raises him, it lowers, it screwed, it dismembered, he crumbles, him hatchback in his game from the earth toward the sky and, again, from the sky pour earth. It winds the near fields and the distant mountains, preventing the sight, clear, the contours. The poet assists from the balcony of house to the show that changes in front of his eyes and his mind is not able to reflect on the metaphor that brings back him to the poverties of living: insatiable greed to possess, dreams of great successes always, ostentations behind which cowardice and weaknesses are hidden. All appear him inconsistent as to melt some fog? No, not everything is evanescent. There is a certainty in his heart: it is a bud of hope that blooms from the confusion of the things to revive to the truth, to the light, to the beauty of the authenticity.
It flows, agile in the enjambements, the language of this lyric, fluid in the verses between description and introspective reflection. "Fog of the country to me near" it is the dry dam and suffered of the poet, his cry of pain, his rebirth and ours.

Agostina Spagnuolo