Not a Film

I forgot to tell you
this is not a film.

When the bodies of two men
were washed out on a shore.

When tanks rolled over
a school yard.

When borders opened
for some people.

When forty years
became four days.

When I stopped giving
promises to my son.

When the morning light
took me hostage.

Out of mercy.

Timeout

With closed eyes the world
disappears inside us,
time shrinks and hides
behind the soft skin of our eyelids.
Eleven years, twenty years ago,
forty, the day we were born;
we’ve learned the trick from the very start.
A membraned border, our fine veil
between seeing and looking,
or a wall out of stone
when pain is involved.
Just before we fall asleep,
just before we cry,
just before we give in to madness.

No snow here

No snow to report here yet

though the sky is willing

and our hearts wait for it

in deep winter.

For a while a white softness

would rub out the dirt of the streets,

the remains of this year’s

half-hearted celebrations.

And then, soon after,

we’d be thirsty for colour again,

our mind would shovel away

the heavy burden

from green bushes and red cars,

we’d long for the blue sea,

the moonlight in a warm night

when the cicadas cannot sleep.

But to make it all worth it,

first the snow must come.

Despite it all

We danced because there was no music
We wished what we could never have
We drank though others were thirsty
Despite it all, we opened that door

Low Light

The winter rolls over the land
like a cold carpet.
It’s soothing that seasons
haven’t forgotten their job yet.
As the days get shorter
we shrink a bit more in them too:
less steps, less words, less thoughts.
Only desires are still growing.
How to forget those bonfires
we’ve lit ourselves behind us?
The dancing shadows we watch
are ours.

Voices

Not to interrupt the darkness

we breathed slowly, exhaling

almost invisible smoke.

We had rolled cigarettes

with cold hands, shared fire.

Nothing happened for a while.

Then the stars started falling,

each one like a different voice,

leaving their choir behind,

escaping with a strophe of a song.

Cosmic dust burning up fast.

Caravan

We took the endless road,

no signs, no map, not a single soul.

The winter around us

grinding his teeth to the unlucky ones,

the ones with no caravan.

The queen wears red

Soft-kissed and warm-turned,
the skin touched the fresh pillow.
The last bit of the cream applied,
the golden box thrown into the bin.
But not before one more deep breath
is taken from the now empty space
of vanity and youth obsession.

The queen lies now in bed
and wears red inside.
Her life is blue, her house is yellow,
her teeth are black, her weather cold,
her kingdom ancient, her hands weak.
But her face smells of roses,
of bergamot and citrus.
She closes her eyes and counts
her children, like others count sheep,
to fall asleep or die in their sleep.

Windows

Tell them that the winter is here.

If they want to visit,

they must wear their thick skin,

forget about the virtues of the sea,

and wait until the fog clears

for the surprised birds to sing.

Tell them we are here.

At Last

With a group of friends

we’ve talked many times about

apparitions.

Mine had been just a few:

a bird that wasn’t there,

words that grew on the top of trees

or places that blurred into each other.

But the other day, there she was,

my friend from thirty years ago.

She hadn’t changed and walked

under my window with the same grace,

the same wild blond hair,

and that smile, full of future pleasures.

I hadn’t known how much I’ve missed her.

I hadn’t known how much I remembered of her.

As she walked away, back into the past,

I realised that the time has come

for everyone to reappear

and tell a story.