March 2020 -Part 1
March 25, 2020 § Leave a comment
15th March 2020
The world is turning,
we reluctantly spin with
it, dizzy and weak.
We hold on the next day,
the next curve on our way,
the blackbirds in spring.
Not what we know is
now. Now is not what we know.
Yet spring, yet flowers,
yet night, yet dreaming.
16th March 2020
Early night poem:
My dear, I can’t wait
for the night to fall to listen
to that blackbird.
You know, the one that
flies around the neighbourhood
boasting with good songs.
A yellow beak in blue
hours, a little light before
darkness. We gather
the things that matter.
18th March 2020
4am again,
out of sleep, out of absence,
back to the now time.
A quiet river
is this night outside. Only
one far away hum,
a busy machine
programmed not to need others
And so ignores fears
and early birds’ sighs.
19th March 2020
We feed each other
the news; it’s hard to swallow
and it burns our tongues
not to know if this
is already our future,
if nights will stay long,
if summers will come,
if sun and sons will kiss us,
if that memory
still has got a chance.
20th March 2020
You’d think the night would
have some soothing black liquid
to slow down sickness,
just as it does with
movement, sight, noise or choices.
But night’s eyes seem closed
to everything but
memories, fears and wishes,
wrapped in rosy dreams
or nightmares of real.
20th March 2020
Everything around,
too present to understand.
“Mum, said my son, when
I’ll be eighty years
old, people might invite me
to schools to tell them
about the year of
the great disease, I’ll be their
eyewitness and old.”
Yes, my dear, you’ll be.
22nd March 2020
Most of the people
are silent, their eyes strangling
to adjust themselves,
in the darkness of
this waiting room. They just stand
rigid on the shore,
feet deep in the sand,
ignoring the waves, looking
at the horizon
where the ships are still .
23rd March 2020
A Forgotten Love:
Our houses are now
clean, floors and furniture shine,
but the guests won’t come.
We’re in other times.
As the day breaks, the call of
an uncertain spring.
It’s hart to resist,
and yet it feels unwelcome,
out of place now like
a forgotten love.
I was not born in English 
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