Casa Internazionale

Even the bleakest day

Had a taste of the present.

The present,

Back then,

Was a concoction

Of mellow mornings,

Followed by endless,

heightened nights.

Now it’s just me

And the future:

I am gnawing it away.

At least it will sharpen

my teeth.

Not a day goes by

Without someone telling me,

“Oh, you’re from…!”

Not a day goes by

without someone proclaiming,

“I know you, you’re this!”

 

‘This’, is nothing

Not pleasure,

Not haste.

No taste of present,

Not even of future.

‘This’ should be something,

But it’s not

Never will be.

‘This’ should be me,

And maybe it is,

A tiny bit.

But it’s not my lips,

It’s not my lungs,

It’s not my quirks,

It’s not my tongue,

It’s not my hands,

It’s not the crepuscular,

Beautiful faces,

That haunt me,

When I walk,

When I breathe,

When I remember that once I existed.

Somewhere,

A space,

Down Under

Where everybody is something

Nobody is nothing.

Deaf smiles mean nothing.

It’s easier to be mould

Than to be river.

It’s easier to drag down

Than to raise up.

It’s easier to be ‘this’

Than to be gone.

It’s not easier to be here,

Than to go back.

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