The Memory of Tomorrow

There is a memory that hides, without name,
not of yesterday, nor of an hour just spent,
but a feeling of steps forming,
on the sand of a dawn not yet aware.
It is a tenuous veil, never fully undone,
a premonition that the heart has already gathered.

Non è visione, né l’eco d’una sorte,
it is the perfume of a flower that won’t bloom,
the tone of a voice, still not strong,
a pattern that slow time brushes through.
It is the taste of water I do not drink,
yet its freshness I already perceive.

An invisible guide, painting without trace,
dresses every instant with what will be.
A familiarity that does not embrace,
a story that the soul will tell.
It is the knot linking being to coming,
the before that already carries its arrival.