from where I come my dear traveler

it’s the stage

of a vineyard form of amphitheater

digged by my father among the others when

he was still experiencing

his vital states of mind

when he was drunckly adorable

beyond  mountains and forests

beyond those noctambular draculities

and argues on the nationality

of dear mother of God

from where I come there are people not landscapes

of plastic with mannequins

nor freaky castles with touristical news

it’s me and you and all wich still believe

in that dubious rest of humanity

from where I come the single noble family tree

that makes us true is the bread

and the salt of the land

it’s everything that keeps us free

and madly together

from there I mounted on my eyes

a kind of wasting

and alcohol of vanity

because the vineyard is gone for good

and above all  even above my dad 

the forest is growing high

thus my joy is a kind of dream on the edge

kind of resentment

and tears swalloved again and again

by the rage