You are bilingual.
If sorrow counts, then tri lingual.
You speak it in whisper, softly
because it is your refuge.
Sometimes you say that 
Mussolini was another Picasso ,
who drew with red bullet pens.
If so, you are an artist and an art,
your skin your canvas -
your fingers the brush.
A red gauze over it.
Other times you search under the rocks
for earthworms counting their lifespan.
Life and it's coral hymns.
You live in the the land where
heart of people is measured
by the size of their smiles.
Your smiles are obsolete.
So, they call you heartless.
And they search you.
You are searching for yourself-,
they don't know that yet.
All day you wait.
You know how to wait-
in vows, in prayers, in recitations.
Like the echo of a tide.
You listen to rain spilling
affirmations but you know
that water and tear are the same,
only proportions matter.
Just like that everything disappear:
the remembrance of a dream.
You sleep in the balcony of a motel,
its floor softer than your home.
You spill your secrets there,
and ants move in perfect rhythm promising you that they won't tell anyone.
And when you look, you see
twenty four summers
you lived in the corner.
Like moon, you are suicidal.
But you comeback alive again.
That's why you pray to yourself
"Next time you leave,
Go quietly, go quickly.
Never come back."

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