Going Back

At present, everything takes me to its opposite -- a full-bloomed rose buries me along its thorny axis, awakening means sleepwalking in an unknown world, I speak in a diagram with arrows pointing back.

I spend my life nourishing myself with hunger, follow guides in and out rain that erases my features, moulds my face with liquid bronze dripping from open jaws.

When asleep, a baby-born moon paints silver the inside of my eyelids and in this metallic light, I follow you along days that blow away like poppy petals leaving the scent of a red wind, then, nothing.

Tornare indietro

Ora tutto va al contrario —
una rosa aperta mi affonda nelle spine,
svegliarmi è vagare nel sonno,
parlo con frecce che tornano indietro.

Mi nutro di fame,
seguo voci nella pioggia
che mi cancella il volto,
lo rifà in bronzo fuso
che scorre da bocche aperte.

Nel sonno,
una luna appena nata
illumina le palpebre.
In quella luce segreta,
ti seguo
tra giorni che svaniscono
come petali,
con l’odore
di un vento rosso.
Poi, più niente.

---------

Going Back

Now everything moves backwords —
an open rose pulls me into its thorns,
waking is wandering in sleep,
I speak in arrows that point back.

I feed on hunger,
follow voices in the rain
that erases my face,
reshapes it in molten bronze
dripping from open mouths.

Asleep,
a newborn moon
lights my eyelids.
In that secret glow,
I follow you
through days that fade
like petals,
carrying the scent
of a red wind.
Then, nothing.