To Dayan, for helping me with the writing.
This is just a moment, that belongs to the poem when time goes out
while they’re slowly burning inside their thoughts
and I watch them walking deeper,
into the darkness of a scar, of this frozen time,
during this autumn, in which everything is falling,
including them, taking each one in different wales of wind,
while the stations star to change,
and they’ll find out themselves
exploring winters without stars,
within their wounds.
This is just a poem, where there’s nothing left for them but dance
between the flames of what ended being empty illusions,
where they tried to swim avoiding flashes of pain,
wishing that the ocean didn’t sink them until they disappear.
This is not my poem, as every poem that I write,
and poetry doesn’t belong to any one,
perhaps belongs to the moment when I wrote it, but just a verse or two.
It belongs to those who want
to look themselves inside of it
and listen to the strings of their hearts,
crumbling at every verse.
