To my mother

All is wrong or bug,
All is true or right.
maybe, or probably, All is just necessary!

We are only characters of numberless comedies,
themselves repeat unchangeable and different themselves, until our soul,
with mighty fury or marvellous love, won’t detach itself
from this continous loop.
And yet,
I’m not sure if you had known like your ancient tales, about Testaccio and the wars and my grandparents and your old work and friends, were and sounded so mild and soft in my head
(do you remember my gift and my card “To my mother, because she doesn’t think
I am impassible to Rome”).

Like a weak light,
that in the night the pilgrim discerns in the darkness, like a gentle breeze, your light and mild memory leads me in a peaceful and safe place, made of guitar’s sounds and supper’s scents and tender tepidness, while outside is cold and dark and white street lamps light the village, moving itself in the night.

I deeply feel your lack,
mother of mine,
of your hugs and your words “don’t drink too much!”, of your image in the kitchen, in the empty house with its sounds that perpetually toll in my mind, together your poetries and ductile rhymes.

Until our souls will not detach themselves from this mysterious loop, and meet themselves again in another spaceless and timeless dimension, perhaps together other our lifes we have lived, and all together will clasp ourselves in a new and endless embrace, …
so long, mummy!

[Rome, July 27th 2006]


Attribuzione – Non commerciale – Non opere derivate 2.5 Italia (CC BY-NC-ND 2.5 IT)