Wasted Days

Can you remember?

Remember my name?

Can you remember?

Remember that day?

When we ran into the rain

And burn the chain in flame

Around our neck?

Leafs on the deck.

Can you remember them?

How to speak?

How to break

The wall made of brick

That we know

Stands so thick?

How to see?

How to breathe?

How to break free?

How to touch?

How to run

To what you want

So much?

Remember.

Can you remember?

Remember my breath?

Can you remember?

Remember the death?

All those cracks in the all?

The dead whales from the shore,

Brought by the storm?

The past days empty home,

Can you remember?

Can you remember?

Remember the fears?

Can you remember?

Remember the dreams?

Our hungry beasts,

Anyone has ever seen

Hanging on our hearts

Sorrows’ feasts

Not knowing where it ends

Or where it starts?

Can you remember?

Remember the days?

Wasted in stationary trains

As they sleep in our veins?

Can you remember?

Where Paths End

Run on paths of thick wild forests and guide yourself by no compass, no rational choice on junctions or any other logical direction taking, but simply go ahead, one step to follow another, make no sense out of it and watch where you end.

The place you get to, will teach you something; something only you will understand; something that you see, or hear, or feel; something that triggers an emotion from deep within your soul. It may come from the sound of a car, when you had reached a town, or the smell of burning wood from a fire camp; it may be the cold touch of water that makes you shiver on a stormy weather or maybe the sight of a thunder in a far distance, on a heal; it may be the fog sleeping in hollows. It also might come from the sound of autumn leafs crushing under your feet, the cry of an unseen bird, or the sound of a clear river making its way through the logs of old trees. It might be the wind, breathing on highest chines. Yes, it may be the perfume of mountain's flowers or the smell of fresh grass. Not mention the noises of sheep and cows and goats bells while chewing; or the sound of blades cutting grass. And the crickets’ well organized orchestra; and the hum of bears, and the howl of wolves. It may be the cluster of bees or the taste of wild fruits; or you swimming in the lake; or the seeing of a remote hut. Maybe the cry of eagles or falcons, or both. Maybe the scent of moss. Maybe you gasping for the breath while hiking. Maybe the harsh texture of rocks, cliffs and walls. Maybe the touristic painted sign on a wall. Or a carpet of fir needles fallen from a broken old tree. Or the gum tree. Or long branches. Or thick blocks. Or snow on the picks. Or snow creaking under your feet. Or cold. Or hot sun warming the meadows. Or dogs barking and men working on houses. Or day breaking, evening coming and night enlighten by full moon and sparkling stars that seem closer and more beautiful here than anywhere else. It could be the string of a leave, the brown of a cone, the white of a tag, the red of an apple, the purple of a grape, the black of a smoke, the glassy of an ice, the blue of an eye, the texture of a cloud. It could be anything and everything.

It is you who will feel the beats and thrills and bangs and will flutter. You. Because it is you who will give them meaning and they will only find meaning in you. To anyone else, they will be nothing more than parts of the surroundings, things of the world with importance to the ecosystem. But to you, they become golden fish’s dreams come true. They are your own extensions. Fantasies turned into touchable matter of reality. They are life creators and keepers. And you also. This is why you have a connection with them: you both are part of the same world. And you both sustain equally life and death.

So, there is not the paths you plan on taking that matters; no road is as important but one that leads you to finding something you did not pictured in your head before. I have little interest in these kind of paths. Tell me nothing about them. But do let me know what you find when you get where paths end and, moreover, tell me where the paths emerged from.

From the Underground

It is raining.

It is raining

And they’re coming,

Yes, they’re coming.

They are moving,

Moving fast,

With no one left

To stop them

From coming.

And they’re closer,

Closer to us;

On the empty streets

They’re coming,

They’re coming,

Through the rain that falls down

On us,

They are coming

From the underground.

Afar sound

Of white noise

Crawls under my skin,

They’re coming,

Coming for me;

Lost my poise,

With such a fast

Passing moment

That cannot last.

It is raining

And they’re coming,

They are coming

Coming to put me down,

It is raining

And they’re coming,

Coming from the underground,

They are coming,

…coming for me.