There was a time when I lived only because the winters would come after the summer. There was a place where they were born and died my summers, a place where the sun broke through the branches of pine trees, the sea and talking lizards slipped into the cracks of the walls, the place for me was the opening of a funnel which dripped from his life. Now that place is not Moreover, those summers are over. Only the memory remains.
There is a road that divides the green from the pine trees and blue sea. In those green pine trees is a dark and empty. There, where there were green branches now there are dead branches and dead trees, where now there are dead trees, there were flames, where there was life there is now a desert. There
the road does not divide over the pines by the sea, because there are more pine trees. The sea is still there, but it is black and just, and no longer spoke in front of him because it has nothing to talk to.
Where were the pine trees there was a camp where there was a camp there are the greedy hands of men. Where was the camp there were projects, but where was the camp there were houses and people, and where there were trees there were laws and prohibitions. Where there were houses there was a man left sheaves of dried pine trees in front of the doors where there were pines, there were flames, there were houses where there were gas cylinders, where there were cylinders There were explosions, where there were houses remained rubble.
Where were our homes there are holes where there were political prohibitions are patronizing, where there were thieves were thieves.
the sea, beneath the pines, there was a white house with shutters green and red roof. Now, the sea, under the dead branches bare and the sky, there is an abandoned house, red roof is uneven, the walls have cracks and peeling, the green shutters have come down and the windows are open mouths and empty eye sockets through whose cries the wind. Where there was no white rust and dirt and those who pass the written, where there was green on black, where there's black, there were flames. Where life is distilled bitterness dripping.
That house is my home. Where there was my stuff there is a vacuum where there was my bed is the void, where our room was a wall there, but that wall is not empty. Where there was a vacuum there is a pattern bonded with Scotch, is the body of a mosquito dunk with the baseball bat the night of a south wind, there is the awkward drawing of a dog and the footprint of our names. Where there was my childhood there were no flames, there was my life where there is an echo of memories.
That house has a terrace, and on the terrace there was a day. That day on the sun terrace there was a mat that smelled of view, a quiet rain that smelt of late, which smelled like a purple sea view. There were Ciccio, Marty, Gianmario, Giorgetta, the three David, Mario, Joseph, Francesca, I have been there, our silent goodbyes, our eyes fixed on the sea, held back our tears eyelashes, silly jokes, smiles and pulled a chocolate donut improvised, and my grandmother who was pretending to be gay, and everything smelled fine. On my desk is a picture, that picture in there we are. Where were our voices is a scream - suspended - in the air.
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