C’est moi, c’est l’Italien...

I guess my heart will be crying beside Grand-maman Lebeau next time the voice of Serge Regianni will resound in the dining room, with L’Italien...

In my garden, on my blankets, wearing my fur hat from Bricklane, was laying an Italian man... For the first time I could open my eyes on the person my lips would kiss. I could dive into the heat of his eyes in the darkness and the coldness of London... And when the sunbeams dared to interrupt the night, nosing behind my fence, my glance would slide from the arch of his eyebrow to his chin and tears would slide from my eyelid... And if I wondered about the reason of these tears, I knew they emerged from my soul and they wanted to tell that life is beautiful, hence I let them flow and I let the sun rise...

When I woke up the sun was high above, beating down on our skin and I understood I was caught.