SAMHAIN'S NIGHT FROM THE OTHER HEMISPHERE
It was Samhain's night, it was a Celtic dream speaking my same language, because sometimes no one sings better than an ancient silence, and there's no better fellow than an angel dipping in the acqueous crystal of an unexpected moon.
It was Samhain's night, and I saw some of its northern atmospheres walking straight in through a Queensland's storms, because its wrong compass always marked toward south, toward Tasmanian lands.
It was Samhain's night: I saw a vagabond sitting on a huge stone. Someone heard him whispering a song. It's not clear language was it. Everybody knew it would have been his very last song: "It was Samhain's night".
It was Samhain's night and the vagabond poet would have soon faded away. His song generated a thick darkness that would have soon swallowed him and his songs.
It was Samhain's night, but I was still looking for the evening, even though the evening wads already closing its invisible eyes to the dusk and the night had fallen already. Sad eyes nostalgically looking toward east, toward Toowoomba or Warwick...
It was Samhain's night and Tasmanian's shore was still far away. Nonetheless there was always a new shade every time he started a new refrain of that same song.
It was Samhain's night, and a silence, every kind of silence started overlapping the wind song far in the distance...
Brisbane - 30th November 2016