I committed the worst of all sins: not being complete.
Across the fields my race didn’t last long and will extinguish with my death
me being the sole prototype of a different form of existence
an unlikely genetic mutation between the gabriels and the lerners
I sinned because I did not finished the novel
I did not arrive on time neither remember the tickling
of the ovation and perseverance from my mother’s throat.
I have not been a paisano but instead always a stranger
sentenced to die in another place a weeping willow
gypsy trousers Jewish look last living specimen
commercial exponent of the lerners and the gabriels crowded together
in this solemn generation of betrayed revolutions.
I have not been a master
did not kill the man that was haunting me down from within
neither the one that hated me with a reason
I did not graduate climbed the ladder did not want to be a lieutenant
or rightful or in a palace not even own a title
the bells and red flags did not play for me the communist salute
and even if I was a sunflower and a swirl an amphibious man
even if I was made of grapes
I did not chose never voted
I pretended to be pushed towards
and nobody saw the wink
nobody sees me inside now
no one knows that I am laughing.
Rome, July, 1997