I leave behind
the matter that carried me on,
I vanish in the air
like the smoke of an almost off cigarette.

The lightness becomes heavy,
like a stuck anchor
of a ship that must sail.

To retain life in my hands
is to die little by little,
die of steadiness,
die of lack of excesses,
die of a not exhausted life.

Re-write my own story
is to **** who I have been,
undo the trips I have done,
swallow old laughters,
live backwards;
what I am and what I did
could only lead me where I am now.

I expect a great past ahead of me.