The poet

A man sits down in a meadow, takes a little book out of his backpack, and starts reading aloud, regardless of who passes by.

It looks like a poem… I get closer to listening better and I recognize a verse by Tonino Guerra in “The Butterfly”.

“I’ve been happy, really happy many times in my life, but most of all when they released me in Germany, I started looking at a butterfly without wanting to eat it.”

The way he is reading it says a lot about this man, he seems like the poet himself. In his interpretation of him, there is so much grace and the slowness that separates the sound of each word spoken opens the gaze to the depth of who wrote it and who is making it their own.

Only a sensitive soul could do it this way.

He who wishes to grasp true beauty looks beyond what he sees on the surface.

I get a little closer, enough to make him feel my presence, but without disturbing him.

Then the man turns the page, waits for the right moment, and reveals himself:

Come on, don’t be afraid. My name’s Mauro, a humble dreamer.