I often stand under the trees,
Waiting for the myrtle to fall
like drops on the mouth.

I feel the earth talking under my back
unveil secrets of other worlds
It keeps silent about a City, which is under the backbone
It is being built with drills and picks.
The ear rests, weightlessly, on the ground
to feel the sweat slide down your forehead
and fill up with the din of the miners
until all the walls of the body have been touched by its echo.
Up to the point of touching the din of the tips and pickaxes.
Rests.

The green of the stems twines around the fingers
and there they remain, too
watching the myrtle fall,
sewn to the earth.

I let emerge placid purple velvet leaves,
from the clothes.

I watch the myrtle fall
And the light filtered by the flowering trees
berry after berry, pierce the veil.

the source of my love
is the same one that it takes me away from you

but it's too close
and I feel it alive
It bounces in all walls of my body

The anemic little girl makes the mannequins blush
she fills her pockets with books
to tear herself away from fake tenderness
from flower lovers

she jumps from hat to hat
and with magic tricks disappears

there's no caustic world
no poison that can pollute the blood
she knows where she doesn't want to stay


to protect herself
     from The All Same

Son come up and see the light
Have you ever heard about the story of the lonely fish?
He sits swimming in silence
With no friends to play with

but it was all in the sea current
it was enough for him
to go wherever he wanted
distant and fast
without ever stopping.

all of a sudden
the whole ocean seemed full
and even the small plankton, weighed on it.
And he felt their weight get closer to him.

i like talking about those images you know.
of the dark forest
and the spheres illuminate our path,
float between the fronds.

they tell me that it is not about love.
you can love one person and belong to another.
every day I repeat it to myself
when the first evening comes to us.

i bring back those images.
to have you back
for a moment.
to tell you that it was all true
to tell you that i see you,
kissing my hand again, beside the dark.

Step by step, you disappear.

Hold on to the rough bark. Scratch my palm.
Looking for the water source

Where is there any turning back?
What is the point of arrival that silences every gasp?
There would be no redemption.

There will be no merit or improvement,
there will be no demonstration or change, revenge and opportunity that can make you become a good person.
You may know love in the furrows of others, but not fully feel its languor.
You will be able to rejoice the moment before, and cancel yourself the moment after.

I have known death in the faces of the people I loved.
I've seen so much sacrifice fall asleep suddenly.
I've seen so many wrinkles unwind and find peace.
I feel no shame in thinking about death.
Being twenty-five years old and dealing with the earth every day.
Talk to the earth.
As if the clods could weigh on my mood.
Being old enough to do everything but becoming the shadow of nothing.
To be an inconsistent fullness of color.
Like the dark. Like black.
Be twenty-five years old. Caring about life but not enough to live it.

I wonder what the way is to leave everything behind and start again.
Without forgetting me, without forgetting them.

Then they asked me: A cosa stai pensando?
So I forgot.