STORY OF A MAGIC ROSE

Once upon a time in a distant country there was a family made up of father, mother and son. They were very poor and the father was forced to beg on the street. One day the man saw a rose different from the others, this one was of 7 colors: yellow, orange, red, purple, blue, green and white. He took it home to his wife and son who, seeing it, marveled at the beauty and strangeness of the color of the rose: it could be a magical flower so they began to make wishes hoping that the flower would grant them.

"I would like a huge table full of food, a huge house" said the wife and so it was; then the child said "I wish we were a family of nobles and that I had a room all to myself." 

And this too came true, finally it was the turn of the father who asked "I would like to live partly with a family of nobles and have many servants".

All this came true but the little family realized that only one color remained in the magic rose: purple!!!! So they put the flower in a room, the highest in the castle protected by the strongest guards to ensure that the rose was not stolen. The years went by and the relations between the neighbors became more and more intense, they spent every afternoon together. Matteo, an orphaned boy, and his aunt Anastasia lived in the neighbor's house. Matteo had lost his parents when he was born to a sorcerer who had transformed them into frogs, but his aunt had told him that they had died in the war. Matteo spent his days in the orphanage except for Sundays which he spent with his aunt in the fields he owned. Not many years went by when the father of the family, which had become rich, was on the verge of death and asked his son to bring him the rose to ask for eternal life; but the son brought it to him late as the father was already dead. So they decided, mother and son, to leave the last wish to Matteo who wanted to know who his parents were. So he asked: 

“Rosa, show me my parents!!!” 

And immediately he heard voices: 

"Son, help us, we're here!!!" 

So he understood that his parents had been turned into frogs. The rose hadn't lost its color and Matteo asked: 

"Rosa please make mum and dad return to humans" 

And Matteo's parents became human again and hugged their son. Then they went to look for the sorcerer who had turned them into frogs and realizing that he had done it because he felt lonely, they forgave him and welcomed him into their home, living happily ever after.

PROTECT HEARTS

Eyes of the heart inside a ring,
They wrote sad words of sin:
The wrong time,
The wrong beat,
The wrong night It was raining and you were crushed.
The wind was deserted,
the night dark,
You had a thought that warmed up,
You took it with you inside the hotels of iron.
And then he came,
with a shadow in his heart,
devouring donuts,
devouring the dust of ancient houses.
You wanted to escape the grave,
and your rose was still alive.
Then the flower turned daisy yellow,
Wine had the last drop on his heart And the car went into the ravine.

A BOX FULL OF ME

In a dusty box, I found a thousand memories of a past life. I rediscovered myself 10 years ago, observing it with the eyes of an older sister. That little girl was full of hopes and dreams. He lived one afternoon at a time without ever caring about tomorrow. It smelled of autumn days, candy, cigarettes never touched. It reminds me of sleepless nights between messages, dedicated songs, a rush to grow up. The desire to run continuously, music with friends, volleyball games, the smell of perfumed pens, elastic bands on the wrist. The spontaneous painting, the sun setting at 5 o’clock, the color in the hair, the hooded sweatshirt jackets, the pizza with the stringy mozzarella, the empty lighters and the burning on the chest of drawers, the sound of the rain against the fibers, the jumps with joy after the exams, he ran them on the hot asphalt with bare feet. A rose was born from that asphalt. A rose that has never forgotten where its origins lie. A rose that developed the thorns of the petals first. A rose that, even if hit by winds and storms, still stands proud. A squad that has seen many people pass and few stop. A rose that has lost some petals, but has been able to flourish again. In my mind I keep, in color, the film of his life. I wish I could protect her from everything she will have to face, but in reality I think I should let her go: all the lessons I have learned in life are the fruit of her sacrifice. I hope to make her proud of us when in 10 years, inside an old dusty box she will find a thousand memories of a past life. Dedicated to that little girl without whom I wouldn’t be me today.

I’M FASCINATED

I am fascinated by the mystery of lives
That unfold along the chessboard
Of days and streets, faded photos
Memory of twenty years or one evening. 
And I am involved in the eternal dripping
And time over the face of a passer-by
And asking me if he appears in his features. 
The insult of a death or a lover
The mysterious network of relationships
Which binds with its evanescent threads
The eternal carousel of reasons or wrongs
The scaly toll of moments
The world seen with asphalted eyes
Chasing the ballet of the hours
We who know where we were born
But we will never know where we die
I like to rummage through memories
Of other people, winters or springs. 
To lose or find connections
In the apparent chaos of a second-hand dealer. 
Paintings that someone has been posing for
A telescope that has looked at a point. 
A globe, two bijou, a rose. 
Junk once beautiful and now worn
Think who may have used them. 
Seeking an answer to the charade
Why they were abandoned. 
Like a dog left on the road. 
Objects that someone has perhaps loved. 
Now they lie there, without a master. 

A LOVE WILL NEVER END

I weave my hair, letting the unruly locks frame my face. The same ones that you rolled around your fingers, before placing a soft kiss on my constantly chapped lips. My dark eyes become shiny and my reflection takes the form of a blurry mass. I tie the braid with the usual damaged elastic, which I always keep on my wrist. I hug tightly in the sweatshirt; suddenly I got cold. I sit at my desk. I think, letting myself be enveloped by that sense of emptiness that suddenly filled my chest. Yet, after you, so many things have changed. Even if the others don’t notice when they see me arrive, with my backpack full of writings on my shoulder, and my faded Nikes on my feet, nothing is the same anymore. My way of walking has changed, because after you every step of mine has become uncertain; I’m lost. And the hazelnut color that fills my eyes has become so thick that it doesn’t allow any emotion to leak out. My playlist has changed, but all the songs keep bringing me back to you. And even my smile, which once drew a web of wrinkles in the corners of the mouth and eyes, is now always forced, so much so that it looks like a grimace. I open my diary, letting my fingers savor the pages soaked in ink and tears. My way of writing has also changed; my words are so irregular and flickering that they give the impression of falling into the void and shattering into a thousand pieces. And here, at some point, our last photo together. The only one I printed. The ruined edges, the crumpled and creased paper. With my index finger I slowly retrace your image, in the illusion of being able to feel the softness of your lips and the way they bent to pronounce my name. I continue, towards your freckled cheekbones and, if only I could go back, I swear I would memorize every single constellation they formed. I keep going, until I get to your hair, and the memory of how much I liked to ruffle it makes my heart tremble. Everything gets too blurry and shaky, so I hold the photo tightly to my chest and start crying like a baby. My head is full of unanswered questions, and anxieties. And I know that no one will come to hug me and will be able to tidy up that tangle of thoughts, just like you knew how to do. Between the terror of forgetting the sound of your laughter and altering the tone of your voice, I don’t realize how much my hands are gripping our photo, and the fear of having ruined even a single frame of you petrifies me. I put it on the desk and watch it. Two years. Two years since the last time your perfume remained on me. From the last time your clear eyes looked at me, in the way that only you could do; as if despite all my mistakes, you continue to be perfect. Because for all the mistakes I made, you were able to make me feel right. Two years since the last time my fingers squeezed yours, that your lips tasted mine, that you whispered “I love you” in my ear. Two years since we finished. Two years that I continue to be stuck in the past, refusing to live in a present without you. On my cell phone, your last message is a voice note. You were saying “in 10 minutes I’m under your house.” And you don’t know how many nights have been spent listening to it, and listening to it again, and listening to it again. You don’t know how many times I’ve waited for you, outside the gate, just like last time. For 10 minutes. Which then became 20. Then 30. Then an hour. But you never came. When I learned of the accident, everything became dark and silent, and I no longer felt anything. I remember the car ride with dad. I remember the swearing to find the keys and start the car as quickly as possible. I remember my sweaty hands rubbing undeterred on my jeans and my heartbeat pounding against my rib cage, so hard I thought it might break. I remember the road that seemed longer than usual and the rain falling too hard. Then I remember the ambulance lights. The police car. And another car inside the ditch. And finally your car, with its crumpled hood and shattered glass. I remember when I opened the door, a strong sense of nausea began to rise from my stomach and that my legs were too fragile to support the weight of my body. I remember my eyes were so swollen and I had lost so many tears that I didn’t cry anymore. The frost inside me. I will never know that was the last thought that embraced your mind before going off with you. I will never know the last thing your eyes saw, or the song you were listening to, or the last words you said before leaving the house. All I know is that something broke inside me, creating a chasm, which from that moment began to grow in me. I locked my heart in the safe, and then myself, to the whole world. Once on Sunday morning you always brought me a rose, with a small cream-colored note tied by a white ribbon to the stem. There was always the same phrase “Whenever you need me, and I can’t be there, breathe the scent of this rose, and I’ll be in you. And you won’t feel alone anymore.” Now, every Sunday morning I head to the cemetery, clutching a rose. Who would have thought that in the end I would be the one to bring flowers to you every week, huh? In my note, with my terrible handwriting, I always write the same phrase : “

Not even in the perfume of this rose did I find you. I feel so alone. Please fill my lungs again, because without you, even breathing became difficult.

A ROSE ON THE MOON

Do you know what you are? A rose. A beautiful rose. That people have not been able to handle well so far, they got points, points of those defects that you had not yet seen, and then you started trying to hide them; you are a rose who did not know you had thorns until too many people told her they had them, and for too much too long, long, she worried about those two or three thorns that hurt certain people, which were really nothing else what fools, unable to keep it well. You are a rose who has spent so much time looking at the thorns that you have forgotten how red and beautiful its petals are.

In the end, I always thought that people have to sweat it out. Come on, who do you want to get a beautiful thing without passion? I love to be there to gnaw for a kiss. Go home and stay with the fixed thought of “why he didn’t do it” or “why he doesn’t hold me”. It will be because I do not give myself. The beautiful part of me, the one that many talk about but of which no one really knows the essence, I do not offer. I will be exaggerating perhaps, but there are wounds that do not need to be touched yet. I don’t need pain anymore. And just as I love to win a caress, I want to make it conquer.

And this is perhaps the most beautiful part of you Rose, that you have an honest heart and you have a heart that is proud of you, a heart that many would like because it is not bought, it has no compromises, it is not for everyone, it is loyal, because it is a heart that gives space to a few, as you do. And whoever has even managed to enter there, in your heart, is a privileged one.

You sit down at the table. You look carefully at everything in front of you. You feel the cramps of hunger and the mind that constantly suggests you to eat. You are tempted to grab that piece of pizza, that slice of cake and then throw yourself headlong onto the tin of cookies and devour them one by one. But hold on. You promised yourself not to give up, you would never do it again, and so it was. Self-control prevailed and you didn’t allow yourself to be overwhelmed by temptation. You feel proud and proud, nothing is more satisfying than being able to control yourself and manage your hunger. There is nothing more satisfying than having what can kill you psychologically in front of you and not giving it the power to do so.

You looked at me
as if I was the thing the most beautiful in the world
and you healed me from the disease ugliest in the world:
fear not to be loved never again.