Rita Greco writes in order to be luministically inside things and she is inside things waiting for the deflagration, the bursting of the seed, the blossoming of the bud. An air of a garden hovers over each syllable, dominated by beds of "Compositae", a botanical species marked by composure and complexity, a punctiform source extending in a sorrowful recourse to what one already possesses, sometimes an indefinite and fading you, sometimes the evening of the solitary song "in the sweet cradle of who knows".

The whole landscape of the unfinished appears, meticulous and collected, in the space of a lumen-limen, in a flame of prayer, in a lyricism of seasons where everything is and remains in gestation (from Alfonso Guida's preface).