We carry
millions of tears
inside us.
The surface of our sins
is full of emptiness.
We seems to be someone
but we are one single life,
fragile, intuitive, lonely.
Our hearts are beaten
by the collapsing whisper
of meanings and helps,
but we won’t reach the
absolute silence.
This light of our days
is fake, is trashing our souls,
this light is completely madness.
One lie is build and communicate
every day today, every second, here
on this Eden lost,
where the childhood
means slavery
and work
and sexual barbarism.
The History is plenty of shapes
and tragedies but this fake light,
one miracle, one technology product,
breaks us, pulls us to nowhere,
fills us with the strange feeling
of have something but get nothing.
And all we can do, here
where the war is the narrative coin,
here, we can try to touch the ground
and love somebody who deserves it.
The forgetfulness is always
this shiny tiny floppy sweetie road
that we can always use as path to fly
around the name of divinity.
