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Poem
In the mystery of the night, when stars sneak stealthily through the branches,
nothing has changed, and the body, that ephemeral vessel, still knows how to weep,
susceptible to pain, like a flower under the burden of cold,
the sky hums its eternal song, and we, prisoners of breath,
with thin skin and blood boiling beneath it, are but shadows
in the eternal dance of time, with bones breaking
under the unforgiving weight of history repeating itself.
Nothing has changed, although the earth seems smaller,
and everything that happens feels close, like a whisper
beyond the wall, and the body still trembles,
as if it always had,
before Rome, before Christ,
the same silent scream, the same echo of suffering,
a symphony of innocence, spanning the ages,
uncomprehended, yet ever-present.
Nothing has changed, only the number of people has grown,
and with them, the offenses, new and old, real and imagined,
but the cry of the body, that visceral response,
remains unchanged, a melody in ancestral tones,
that binds us to our ancestors,
that movement of hands trying to shield the head,
the same gesture, the same falls,
knees rising, skin turning blue,
a dance of pain repeating into eternity.
Nothing has changed, only the boundaries have been redrawn,
the lines of forests, coasts, deserts, and glaciers,
and the soul, that tireless wanderer,
loses and finds itself among them,
a stranger to itself, illusory, often unsure of its own existence,
while the body is, is, and is, without its own place,
a nomad of time, lost between heartbeats
and the whispers of the wind constantly calling it back.
And yet, in this landscape of melancholy and dreaming,
nothing has changed, only we, the dreamers,
lose ourselves in the flow of consciousness, in search of solace
that never comes, just shadows of dreams
intertwining with reality,
while the body remains, ever-present,
a memory of what was and what will be.
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