It is a poem of the time and swarms what Mario De Santis writes, text after text, fragments that seem to join, despite their scattered dispersion in a set: the figure which is to form an idea of ​​the history and time the same portrait of a form of interiority. Overcoming the opera and the question of subjectivity, however, report in front of the bare existence of an ego, the need for a preliminary and things of the world. De Santis poetry still attempt to define a condition of possibility of knowing our time in general destinies. Be present to an ego that you or us or anyone placed in a flow of matter, to which De Santis refers constantly: with landscapes, with details and names, a historical geography of spectra and conflicts, which also alludes to a map memory of the last twenty years. The pin are the questions about the meaning of existence in this landscape of humanity and ghosts, living and dead. Be aware of the brutal reality and dumb like that around us, can you? Although we are not a part of this matter? Questions and betting, a look that survives the glow of a disaster inner and outer. Whose eyes? Like poetry survives its silence, the disappearance from the world, who is the look that is so determined in our waking dream, hallucination, to ask: what are they, when they are what?