Waiting for the sea,
mixed with oil, frozen,
let go
to the same drift of man.
Quickly disguised, this death has come,
escorted by screaming seagulls,
stopped by the stench of the restart.
Boat engines,
rejected the wave,
they crawled on the waves,
to capture the only good spesce.
Unscrewed the secret,
of the marine rottenness,
who loves,
who loves,
the green lighthouse
calls the missing ships
in the black horror. A larger area becomes that heart that chases away the gray spots
from its polluted surface.


Attesa del mare,
mischiato a petrolio, ghiacciato,
lasciato andare
alla stessa deriva dell’uomo.
Rapidamente travestita, questa morte arrivata,
scortata da gabbiani urlanti,
fermata dal lezzo della ripartenza.
I motori delle barche,
respinta l’ondata,
hanno strisciato sulle onde,
per catturare l’unico spesce buono.
Svitato il segreto,
del marcio marino,
il faro verde
richiama le navi disperse
nella nera orripilanza. Un’area maggiore diviene quel cuore che scaccia via le macchie di grigiore
dalla sua superficie inquinata.


I haven’t felt this scared in a long time. Loneliness has once again made a nest inside of me and I can’t remember when it started. I don’t feel happy emotions, just moments of relief here and there. Something has jammed and I don’t know how to fix it. Is all this a nightmare? Am I just dreaming? Or has my life really taken that ugly turn that I haven’t felt for years now? Why is all this happening to me? Do others feel these unpleasant emotions too? I can only ask myself questions without finding the answer to any of them. I feel tired, deprived of strength to tidy up this mess, but the less I try to resolve the tangle in my head, the more He takes possession of me, preventing me from breathing. I don’t know where I will end up if I continue like this, I cannot see a positive perspective in all of this. But the worst part is that I don’t even want to do it. I am tired of always having to fight against life, this life that was “given” to me without my consent. I hate saying all these things, I hate thinking about them, I hate feeling helpless in front of myself. All this leads me to the only conclusion in which they are all better than me, for the simple fact that they know how to react better than me to the adversity of their evil thoughts, to their monsters who, contrary to how I did, have managed to appease . Why does it always have to be painful to me? I got tired of crying, but the tears never stop flowing. Is all this a nightmare? Am I dreaming? I would like to be able to answer yes to these questions of mine, but unfortunately this is not the case.

We uprooted trees, skinned their trunks, extracted their souls to make neat sheets of paper, only to be able to smear them with filthy feelings … Millions of tortured and tortured daisies, unable to answer a question they don’t even understand … We dig deep into the earth to extract tokens of love that are shiny enough to hide the flaws in our feelings … Love destroys ecosystems to demonstrate something that cannot be demonstrated. Only what’s really deep reaches the surface (and I don’t remember who said that, but it’s true). For this you should put a cutting hand, horizontal, at the height of the nose, to see the gaze of those in front of you and understand. And break the bread in the middle, smell the first scent and understand. And choosing seemingly unmotivated preferences for people. Appearance is key. Of course. Women who can perfectly distinguish between 78 shades of lipstick, but cannot distinguish between a real man and a jerk who teases them. It always seems to me that there is something, something to understand that escapes me, promised in a dream and hastily yielded by the night and taken again sneaking white-handed of the day closed one above the other and voices whispering: “guess” behind every door, with a black mouth of every extinct fireplace and on the snow, footprints leading to a place and an hour later they are gone.
And what happens during the night Only she knows. She who, In its darkness, It hides secrets and loves. Fascinating because mysterious, Silent because it is messed up. Nobody can understand it, She who does not seek to be understood. Only the night seems to be her friend, He is close to her while she cries, He caresses her hair with his wind. And so, one night, he went away

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