I dreamt that I was walking in heaven. 
 
When, at the first light, the earth was moving 
and everything seems to came out of a slab 
of hard crystal, with a shading 
of a rainbow of colours, but faint, undefined; 
when remaining, sweet, the desire
of sleep, and yet everything chuckles 
to the life that returns and the noises 
are dear, like the touch of bells;
when, full of sleep, you still loo
for more so you can dream, I walked in heaven. 

I felt like like light, very light. 
I walked a street, like all the other
streets; suddenly my steps were stretched 
and I felt like I was rising, without gravity. 
Then I started to run, panting, pushing 
my body higher and higher;
looking down I could see the earth
a dark green, then violet: 
the houses, white, red and black specks.
The people were bigger than the houses,
and they were looking up at me
and they were applauding. 
I felt so big and proud: so proud! 
I was alone and I couldn’t express
my joy; thinking: “At home
I will tell them about my adventure. And I was walking 
forward, forward... I could not
come back. At that moment I was scared. 
An immense fear that changed
my breathing in a single moment. On earth
the men were looking at my with tranquility, 
then they became confused and disappeared.
I was alone and crying. How do 
get back? Who is calling me 
between the clouds? It’s my mother!
It wasn’t a cloud; the ground was grey 
and turned green. Yes, the dark green of the cypress tree. 
My mother was dead... And without her, 
what was my joy?
 
My mother was dead... And I woke up crying.

The above poem is the English translation of the original Italian poem. The translation was written by Mila Ottavini, with the aid of Marta Ottavini and Ugo Tomassini.

The writer of this poem is Antonio Ottavini, and is captured in this original photo.

He was born on the 2nd of October 1937 and passed away on the 4th of August 1995.