Francesco Testa

Night solo
 February 2019
Printed at Fina Estampa, Bologna, Italy.
Francesco Testa

Night solo
The day I realise I’ve been locked
I drown inside myself.
Now the hours are long and look all the same.
If I give up and forget the names
I plunge further down
where I don’t know, and I dream.
As I enter, they all revere me,
yearn me, love me.
I command everyone,
I’m as big as I want to be
and as small and hidden as I want to be.
The answers to my questions
come from the wisdom
of the unknown faces
and from the certainty of the known one.
Turned the page,
ripped the vision.
I’m scared.
I fall down as to the centre of the earth,
in a crackling dance.
Am I an observer or am I part of it?
I am lonely and lost.
In the middle of the storm,
under a tree, can I find shelter?
After the storm, in a puddle, can I dive in?
I hit bottom, I graze the meaning,
I see myself and almost laugh
for the shame. They laugh at me, the cruel spectators.
My encounters sink in the whirlwind fate.
The remaining of tonight’s
time is a turn of events.
Silence awakes me.
It’s already tomorrow. How much have I grown up?
Have I grown up one bush, one tree, one wood?
Nevermind. I’m leaving.