someone lives alone
even with a wife and child around him
he can always feel the dusk
even at noontime
someone feels the wind
fresh, even inside a vacuum
of a bottle of wine tightly covered
by its cork
someone remembers
water
in the years of dried river
beds
she can feel
still the hands
that pressed her breasts
even if what she has for presence
are just ashes
under her barren feet
someone still knows the
happy meaning
of flowers
beside those silent tombs
someone lives the hours in silence
even in the middle of protests
someone still loves and continues loving
even if he is abandoned
someone still knows the story by heart
because the books are burned
these are the poetic moments
and we have,
we still have all these
we never learn, we do not ask
we do not even search all these
in far away places
or in the foxholes or
under the bed
they are within the reach of the hands
of our hearts
so near, that sometimes we conclude
these moments are nothing
but us, or if you are that sharp enough
like a polished nail
in those lonely days of your past lives,
and still getting stronger and stronger
soon you shall declare
it is, I.
just I.
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