Dull roots with spring rain, winter kept me warm, covering; then the thunderous notes of an Arabic theme, I halted at my people’s faces buried in sand with their fists still held tight.
In the lonely rattling nights I heard my lungs collapse and begged for a clear sky.
Let my hour be at the rise of dawn, when the scorpions crawl upon my skull and whisper me the secrets of the earth.
Four feet down you forget the warmth of their embrace, only the full shadow of an ere long slumber.
What a joke to be here.
Lighter, carried by the same wind.
Unbearable height, then warmness to the point of explosion.
Melting in the gentle breeze.
Looking up in between the trees, hearing a whisper.
Saying goodbye.
Begging the Lord to help me.
If I ever been here, spiralling waters in my head, I was sure quick to forget.
Again shadows, no friendly faces, corpses of nature.
Please Lord, please Lord.
I have put down roots, I have felt them grow and crawl beneath trees and caves, kilometres down to the point it burnt.
I woke up screaming in pain, hazel eyes staring at me, a chest full of bones at the end of my bed.
Always open to show me that they’re still there.
How could I call all those names in the night, names I forgot I knew.
Names I forgot brought me shame.
A light reflected dimly on the floor by my tiny necklace, the burden.
Your grandfather told me that not even time moves with unbearable heat.
Stay still and hope it forgets about you.
Spread your stillness, like a mountain lake, quiet for ages, sleeping in a volcano’s crater over the clouds.
Show me where I inserted the blade, where water broke the banks of the river, where it overflew and forgot to mend the land.
Water is not concerned with reaching the sea.
It flows somewhere.
Marie wanders saying that the spirit of the mountain, locked under the bed of the river, forgotten by every village nearby, had the choice to withhold the motion but decided not to.
Flood doesn’t alleviate unbearable heat.
It spreads stillness and slows everything to his immutable pace.
I found myself nose up on the floor.
Thought of you.
Thought of my cousin’s baby that will outgrow me.
Outlive me.
Thought she was something to die for.
Felt the voice of my father behind the mountains at sunset.
Waiting for me at the next fireplace.
Thought you would not be at the next fireplace.
I would not be husband or father.
Not only.
I could not tell you how much I would have died for a little baby creature.
Turning my head and seeing you play with her toys.
A wonderful mother.
A wonderful kid before that.
Dear Lord, the stories, told on the side on the river, in the fields over the mountains.
We were kids too.
I will leave here a photo of me, I will send it back then.
Make you fall in love with me.
To buy myself some time, to get to the church field drenched in sun before you do.
Lay down a blanket, set up a tent, fill the flasks with water, cook something fresh.
It disappears over visions of cement and glass, of tall buildings filled with noise and dust.
I was filled with bitterness and resentment.
Regurgitated sentences of being a good companion.
Sunk in the lake.
Riots in the village.
Tearing down every good christian, to build a new church.
Where every word is fought over, tranquility repudiated and refused.
Everyone of us wants the power to write words on the face of the town hall.
A privilege left by the priests to the gladiators.
By the mountain lake that withdrew its influence.
Left to the steep side of the mountain where nothing ever falls down.
Belong there like the trees do.
Like the snakes that gently crawl through the ferns.
As the deers that rest and greet every new day with beautiful hazel eyes.
The ones I scream of in my vivid dreams.
My fireplace will have everything I hold dear.
The flowers I bought the ones I didn’t buy and the ones I picked while limping.
Every animal, every creature of God, every person whose face surprised me.
All the people that were ever close to me be it in dreams, fantasy or else.
Those who gave me a bed or cooked something for me.
Granted, unquestionable, unconditional.
Guilty.
The last place is where the fire burns a little.
Some water timidly resists.
The lake’s presence resonates with the mountains.
The roots are long as ever.
I wait here, awake, humming a melody.
A melody of fresh sheets, voyages, winds that rise, trees that dance, fragments of fear, long distances and distances so little they hurt.
Times of flood and heat.
Of light that wanes, of stars that keep me company.
To wait by the fireplace.