There is an island. In some maybe or grimace of the face surprised by an unexpected thought.
White shadows moving right under black skies of enchanted suns, days at sea and ships off on endless routes. Quiet gulf at last of deep sleeps, blue nights under silver stars and weary men returning, at last, under warm coats.
The island that is there lies within the hand clutched in the largest pocket, while without anyone beside you you return never to leave again.
It is the island of distant men, of fish screams and the soul that pushes between the shoulder blades to be embraced more tightly.
I tell you that the island is there and you can see it, if you look closely, the surface of the sea.
EN 
IT