Winter in Tobruk
I was far from here, stuck in the mud of my resentment and the cold of fear, where the owl of my mistakes brought me bad omen - just for sport, without malice.
I traveled the world, thinking I was looking for freedom, and I found love, or maybe love found me.
I wandered the world searching for love, and I found myself free, but with all those questions that, like boiling oil on water, splashed everywhere, and I arrived later, trying to clean up.
I plowed white fields of paper that my hand had furrowed only to sow discord between me and who I wanted to be.
I flew a pen too high, the wax melted, and the pen fell, like Icarus into the Egeo of my routine.
Flat waves, calm waves, smooth and firm waves, waves that the sea disowns and the wind wants to hide, waves of a mother tide that runs far away, that a master moon tries to calm.
Waves that would like to rock me, but that stir me where I don't know how to navigate.
I was looking for a refuge, a port to dock at, but without money, patience, art, or fortune, how could I be useful to a crew that was in a hurry to set off again?
I stayed in the port, waiting.
But the ship never returned, the port was increasingly deserted, and the people who crowded it gradually left.
The sailors waiting to board no longer wanted to stay there waiting for the arrival of the next merchant ship, and preferred to winter in front of a glass of rum or in a hospital bed.
Winter passed, and I with it.
I stopped again in a rabid suburb, when the heart is frozen but a shiver makes it tremble.
I was naked and walked straight, and the road seemed infinite, but I know my destination is just before the next curve.
My uncertain steps stumbled upon the horse tracks of the old riding school, ghosts that dug holes with their hooves, waiting for the unfortunate soul who would fall into them.
Falling is easy in the dark, and the more you stumble, the more you dig into the depths.