Think that we're not the only ones
Feel like this skin isn't fully mine
Sometimes i am the lives of others
Otherwise i am no one's life
Understand that even pain has its own lightness.
It must be understood and caressed
A pain for its brightness
The most fragile crystal you could see.

Mother sacrifice
Fix the white canvas in the corner
Too far away to paint
Too close for the mind
There's nothing more to say
She regrets her interrupted dreams
And watching her son realizing them
She paints over the melancholy
of her empty pictures.


Dear Mother,
It is not too late.
There is still so much to paint.

Upside down She looks like a cockroach
She wiggles her paws with technical grace

Needs help to turn

Back with the paws on the ground
She stops on the precipice of the balcony
Looks motionless at the trees from above

As if She already knew where to go,
Or rather as if she knew where not to stay.


Can Bedbugs Fly High?


And without thinking for a moment more
Between the grates, I watch her go away

He told me "I'm here"
I never answered him
I would have loved to do it
I would have loved to tell him that I was there too.


The next day they found him dead in a ditch.


Meanwhile
Two passers-by were talking about filled cakes
"Alla marmellata, alla crema".

Chi gira di mattina
sono i vagabondi e i marciatori mattinieri.
I vagabondi spostano le loro cose da un punto ad un altro.
I mattinieri si preparano alla giornata.
Che potessi essere sia l'uno che l'altro non lo escludo.
Marciatori di mondi vagabondi
che spostano pensieri nell'angolo
dove il giorno non li vede