ON THE PEAK OF PORTA ROMANA

A song from a long time ago on the radio...

(When the snow falls lightly

don’t hesitate, you must!)

The irony in frequency modulation

reveals that deep down there must be

be a reason why the Olympic Games, even winter ones,

are after all called games

(Climbing, always climbing, while the valley sings this: SKI! SKI!)

Skiing is like singing at the top of your lungs

in the wonder of snow-capped peaks or while climbing

towards your destination through winding scenic hairpin bends

and you look around you and think: but when will we get there?

Skiing is like watching someone ski and feeling that you’re right

there in the vast, silent whiteness grazing the sky,

identifying with the champion of the moment,

without the slightest shred of humility

Skiing is as international as eating Chinese food with chopsticks,

very easy, once you know how.

Skiing is skiing

(Pale and slender young lady

take off your skirt,

your mink fur coat,

put on some trousers!)

And then the ritual of dressing, which is a bit

like going to the moon

and walking with skis on your shoulders,

it’s even more so,

slowed down as you are by the unnatural gait (Moonwalking? If only)

but only until you reach the snow,

because then you take off like a rocket

6-5-4-3-2-1-0 Lift off: Milan is already Cortina