To get lost in town

One summer’s afternoon

While I was strolling by the alleys

blushed like the cheeks of a girl,

I stumbled upon an old man

who was waiting for the sunset of his heart.

He’d simply stand there, slanting under the oblique rays of light,

and smoke his pipe, sighing spirals into the wind.

And he’d laugh, and weep, leafing through the book of time.

Oh, the castles he’d build in that pearly cloud

like when he was a child by the seaside.

A sudden tear began flowing down his wrinkles

It was turquoise then blue, hefty and abysmal,

the undertow, the scales of light – there be monsters -

the northwest wind.

I saw him inhaling that tear

and feeling its saltiness;

then it fell on his hand

and the horizon would melt,

a dive into the heart, the swashing of the wave

on the hull of the sail.

The first love: the sea.

Another blow from that pipe

the old man’d slightly faint

uncertain on his stick.

His visage became the countenance of sorrow

I’d see him, the king of sadness with his crown,

The tears once sweet became so bitter

they’d taste like spleen.

He wanted to say ”I’m sorry”

for his wrongs, for his betrayals, for his lies.

On his knees, beg for his mother’s pardon,

because he waited too long, and now she’s gone.

But it wasn’t totally his fault.

He was never able to find his own place into this world,

maybe because there’s not a place for anyone, at all.

This globe is not meant for us:

we are not heroes, we are mere mortals

We are what we are: nothing less, nothing more.

But life goes on, and the acqueous old man’s face

reflected a new curl of smoke.

I saw the rainy days, the cold winds,

being alone even among the crowd.

The heat of the sun, a woman’s hug,

watching the stars reflected on the lover’s glance.

He walked a lot

and sometimes he’d ask himself ‘why?’.

Sometimes he’d only die.

Sometimes

he’d ask if it was really worth the pain,

at the station, sitting again waiting for that train,

thinking ”Now, here’s another train I’ll not get on”.

Yet, when life’d become too heavy

it was enough for him to get relieved

by getting lost in the twilight,

like the sun, taking a little break

under the blanket of the ocean.

Otherwise, he’d listen to that song

able to remember that he was still a child, capable of love.

That’s is Life, afterall.

His best friend, they’d never understand each other,

yet together ’till the very end.

Talking with people of this and that

while thinking of yesterday’s sex.

Reading books for the purpose of reading.

Reading books to learn how to write,

or to learn the only lesson a book is always able to teach:

Loneliness.

When you grow old you are even able to understand

that happiness exists because of sadness

and sadness because of happiness

(oh, they rhyme so well, together!)

We justify our existence

”There must be a reason for this…”

But that’s ok, let destiny exist or not.

Give us a possibility of choice

or let us roam like the spring seed.

As long as we have violins,

the ears of wheat…

Life is like a train, my friend

we the passengers.

We look at the landscape from the window,

amazed,

drawing with our fingers on condensation,

like children.

And we chat with the ones who sit in front of us

so close yet so distant

whispering, from the abyss of our souls

”Beware: you’re talking to someone you cannot trust”



We are idle

yet it moves

this locomotive

without pause.

And when, with astonishment,

we find perfection

(how, how could it be

that I haven’t noticed before

that it was lying in the petal of this flower,

in my son’s eyes, in the eyes of my lover?)

here comes the conductor:

”Life is wonderful, yet we die”