Italo, I have often had this dream:
A bookshop winds on spiral stairs, with shelves
Inviting eager eyes to search for names
And spines which lie, “Yes, I am here; it’s me.”
Italo, in my dream it always seems
That though my search for perfect books will delve
Across each shelf, the titles play these games,
Occluding space until my eyes can’t see.
Italo, you and I both long to find
The story which awaits an unseen end.
These fabricated books, these openings,
Deny us closure, so the tale winds
On through, uncertain, going where it wends,
Unseen the real story that living brings.
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Published by Matthew Pullar
Teacher, writer, blogger, husband, father, Christian. Living in Wyndham in Melbourne's west, on the land of the Kulin Nation. Searching for words to console and feed hearts and souls.
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The Consolations of Writing 
He’s one of my favorite writers! I know his gardener, a wonderful man, old but still alive and well and I’ve got a place near to the house where Italo grew up… Thank you Matthew!
That’s amazing! I only just started reading him. I really enjoyed “If on a winter’s night a traveller”. Will have to read more of him.