They say
the time machine
does not exist it is false
though, they are right along there:
in the archives, the walls, underground,
the ice and the houses. Since the wail to the
first words, the story of a species in a handful
of gestures. We grow up, we run, we get wrong. What
kicks off inside and what arises outside. For example the date,
every September, with the cagey storm: the slow drawing
down, those unworthy and degraded cobblestones.
Autumn’s haste kills trees. When it gets dark
mothers weep, since they know long is
the night, sleep on it, as the elders
said, yet it does not bring relief.
They peek at their children
breathing in their sleep
and ask themselves
whether they will
be lovely,
or ruthless.
Will they know
How to avoid illusion?
Or worse: they will
not have it
at all

Translated by Eleonora Matarrese