The stars are out
and you know the way
- Piccadilly, Rusholme,
Withington, Wythenshawe.
These are names that could
freeze your soul in blue
and maybe light a candle
in the dark if you could
only find a spark.
Every building is an open door,
every street an absent flower
that unkown gods collected
long ago when it was raining.
This is England - a promise.
I tell myself - there is a plan.
Just follow through,
be yourself, smile under
this weird constellation and
expect the unexpected,
what you want will happen,
it's just probability
and probability is
always on your side
when you are in Manchester.

I still see the trees
and feel the wind that
gently shakes the leaves
and the big buildings
when the light is fading
and the evening
is more than a promise
that people going back home
like ghosts of June
can't keep even though
Milano is looking great
and you come to me
and say hello pumpkin
can we live in this park
forever and eat melon.

I'm in England,
and, in some other part
of the world, you are too.
Our journey's been long,
and we move the sky with us
like the people of old.
Across green fields,
red brick houses
and old factories.
Far beyond the sadness in the
face of somebody you
see everyday in the bus
- a sadness you can relate to,
because you are
the same, after all,
but can't explain (and what
would be the point?).
Leaving behind green lakes
and desolated mountains
and tiny villages,
there is a place
someone like us
once called home.
It might be a small house,
sorrounded by trees,
or maybe a bright flat
where children once laughed.
We follow in the footsteps
of a thousand nations.
That's why when we leave,
we'll be back, and when leaving again,
we'll still be here.
Is this country a refuge in the night
where we sleep until the morning
of our lives, or the embodiment
of the unattainable?
We keep moving forward,
and I'm blinded by the lights
- but I embrace it.
This is me now.

It's a small bar,
with old wooden tables
and no music:
I like to get a break sometimes
and I come here every Sunday
after my CBT sessions.
The waitress smiles.
She is Spanish too but
-it's that white mist
taking over my mind again-
I can't articulate
and I just speak English,
hoping she doesn't notice
my accent.

When she brings me
a dark decaf coffee -even if
I have asked for a decaf tea-
and I taste it,
and it tastes horrible,
I lose balance and stumble
for a moment
("you are going to fail",
and "this is all your fault",
and "just let it go, don't move,
it'll pass").

It is such a small detail
in the grand scheme of things,
but this decaf coffee, this black mist,
makes me feel that
there is something wrong with me.

I look through the window:
across the road, a student residence,
all windows and shining glass.
A girl goes up the stairs
with a blue basket in her hands;
she is probably making the laundry.
Another girl leans on the sill,
and smokes. I invent a life for them,
and it's a good life - a life to praise.

I want to go back to Uni, I think,
and for a moment I feel safe, and warm.
("Nevermind,
I'm too old, after all").

I pay for the coffee and leave.
In two hours, she'll have clean clothes,
and I don't know where I'll be
(especially on days like these,
when my mind feels heavy,
and weak).

I live in this city alone.
It is always cloudy here.
It is cold and it rains all the time
but you could find love
if you wanted. That's what
I tell myself when I'm wet and cold
on a lonely street, walking home.
You could look through the window
of an old Victorian house and,
seeing a beautiful family
in a living room full of books,
think “this could be my family”.
Or, on another reality, “that
could be me, as a child or, maybe
one day, as a father”.
The city has no limits, take advantage,
this could be your land.
You could call this city home,
bend it it to your will
if you wanted to.
Take this city in your hands
and squeeze it.
Forge a big heart out of it
or some wings.
Just give it a chance,
it’s not too late
and you still need to get home
and it's ****** raining
                                   again.

I am leaving this house,
where I once dreamed of a shared life,
shards of future reflecting the light,
telling me “you can do this, yes,
you can”.

Somebody left;
the roots were shaken
but the tree still stands.

I am leaving this house,
this refuge, solid ground.
There was only a dark night;
it lasted for two weeks,
and I survived.

I am leaving this house.
(I didn’t sleep for two weeks,
that time, but it’s over now,
I am fine).