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.