The cloister, shelters the wait for the return.

The nuns slip between faint bands of grey light, with Rita, lost and forgotten, in the vegetable garden. And the bee is cherished on the girl's marked lips and calls upon the thorn of the rose on the forehead of the horizons traced by the burnt whirlpools of the spirit.
Cells of lime and white stone, poorer than he who gave his last cloak, silent, in the whirlpool that cries the certainty of the limit. "Qui habet mandata mea et servat ea, ille est, qui diligit me. Qui autem diligit me, diligetur a Pater meo; et ego diligam eum, et manifestabo ei me ipsum".

The lace, worn falls where the end is blind; the virgins listen to the perfume of unclaimed jewels and the vapour of psalms on white hands with offerings of themselves that lead to the confines.
Prisoners in the silent strokes of night, the cockerels do not sing the sleepy dawns in the morning on the edged crest of broom and the mill does not push on the anxieties and poisons of the dark passing of the spheres.

The sundial strikes the hours.
"And when the Saint found herself in the long-awaited sacred enclosure; in an instant, she also saw her glorious escort, Saint John, Augustine and Nicholas, disappear from her sight, left alone and abandoned in the darkness; forced to spend the rest of the night there, in awe and wonder, in a turbulent sea of uncertainty and tumultuous affections".

The drift of unknown shores hastens to the storms, shining, mingling fuming mystical deformities. Impressed, decomposed, inebriating in the glittering calm to draw the times, defeated at the last judgement.
The ash of celebratory memorial fires granulates beneath the Moon, hidden in the stones of families' doors, cold, collected on the inanimate remains of families fade in their fulfilled destinies, in the throws of sacred duty, to be taken to the belly, the mind, the veins on the vestments to be darned even when the blood relations rest and no longer hear the tears of the leaves damp for the sacrifice, poverty and solitude.

The silk slips onto the hay cords of the lyre, onto the cursing hiccoughs of the lute, onto the songs of fairs in celebration markets, among the brushes of the mane of the mercenary soldiers, in the crusts of Gospels recited by profession, in the void of difficult times for prayer, where still a slave is not he who kills his mother in his heart, where the forge prepares the iron, on the coasts of passions, which foam webs and tongues of mud.

The males growl with the wise and sickly-sweet thought of the old, with the insane energy of children, with the stench of violence of lovers, in the indifference of cults and the petrified glory of principles, in taverns seduced by smoke and conspiracy, in the low, square towers, where the executioner's block claims the axe for new lymph that opens to gangrene and delirium.
Ire and remorse growl on the neck of Paolo di Ferdinando in the Guelph residences and Ghibelline terraces. Murder for old feuds on the impervious pass of the Schioppi rusci to the Vineyards of Collegiacone, the swollen, threatening Corno keeps watch by night, lying in wait, forgetting the rock in Roccaporena. Dry the wound of the bridegroom, Rita and burn the odours of hatred in the veins of Gian Giacomo and Paolo Maria, bound to vendetta by lightening that pierces forgiveness.

And the monastery forces the episode onto the woman, onto the bride, onto the mother.

In the long-awaited sacred enclosure.

To return no more, yet to remain longer.

The chalices wait, praying for the ritual to wear away the candles, and the shrine to free the crystals on the sarcophagus of the consecrated altar. "Fulcite me floribus, stipate me malis; quia amore langueo".

Barefooted, with cold knees, and eyes on the reflections of new memories, lips fixed on the "word" that withstands the wind, to receive the gift, for the last stretch of road, alone, among the images, which feed the rhythms of tender and incomparable renunciation.
In the longer silences of the motionless passages, east of the stars, where the impossible folly of love is real, violent, blinding, where the cold warmth of hope dissolves the tarnished pieces of fear.
Absolute, unknown and true, sudden and long awaited, unique, vulnerable to the obstinate demands of the faith.