I can no longer breathe. My chest struggles to tear open the cage of anguish that has imprisoned me for too long. I fight against a system that wants us to be losers, subjugated and defeated.
I measure my life with my falls, putting a mark at the deepest bruises. But who assures me, Mom, that I will have the strength to get up again?
Menamò, a’mamma, everything can’t always go wrong.
Yes, mom, but what an effort… Look me in the eyes. Every blink is a overlook on the stage of my loneliness, and this nothingness, threatening and swaggering, besieges me until I lose all sense.
Menamò, a’mamma, you always be in line with yourself and you’ll see that you’l l find the straight line.
Mom, why all this meanness? It settles, sediments on the skin, with a thousand roots pierces my flesh, and contaminates me. Ineluctably. I am afraid of being rotted pulp locked in a glass jar from which I see and smell myself in the distance, and I don’t know how to save the good that remains.
Menamò, a’mamma, don’t make it poison. Accept the surrender, but without surrendering. Let it go. Let the wind blow free, let it swell your hair and thoughts. Resist, without resisting… and finally REBORN.