I don't know how many souls i have
I change at every moment
I always feel like a stranger
I've never seen or found myself
From being so much, I have only soul
Someone who has soul has no calm
Someone who sees is just what he sees
Someone who feels is not what he is

Attentive to what I am and see
I become them and stop being I
Each of my dreams and each desire
Belongs to whoever had, it not me
I am my own...

Now it is Autumn again, they are all coming back. The recess of summer is over, when holidays are taken, newspaper shrink, history itself seems momentarily to falter and stop. But the papers are thickening and filling again. Things seem to be happening.
Back from Majorca and Ibiza, Milano and Rome. People are parking their cars, and campers in their drives, opening their diaries and calling up people on the telephone, the deck chairs on the beach have been put away,and a weak sun shines on...