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Once upon a time
there was Mark Twain
for whom a journey of a thousand miles began with a single step.
Like a stone thrown by the hand
knows nothing of its way,
and the flight has already begun.
There was the infinity, in the same
shoes, within a journey so short,
in a footstep on the road.
Meridians and parallels did the rest.
There was a flash,
a breath of air, a wolf swallowing a grandma in a single gulp.
The duration doesn’t count.
It’s the attention, the being-present that matter, for not getting digested alive.
Once upon a time there was Aldo Raine,
boldly distributing short strokes on the foreheads.
There was Django, piercing a snowman with bullets
while we, in the meantime, were curiously glimpsing into the hole, to spy a corner of the world
covered with mystery. To throw the heart beyond the obstacle,
to kill the oracle and hear the raven licking a life
away with its hoarse cry.
There was a minute of poetry
where the start and the end had the same name.
Spurt, time and memory: all in a single shot.
We might as well be dancing like damned in a dead man’s shoes
but a single second will suffice to say: hey, we’re here, still awake
with our eyes wide wild, in search for the measure and sense, for the art
of living and dying in an instant.
 
Bastart was born accidently. Surely not a pure breed,
has no big demands. Makes no questions
nor keeps any answers in the pockets,
just stories hidden in his shoes.
Has no company and no direction.
Is all, even the opposite of the Beautiful.
Is nobody, tarred with the same brush as each of us.
 
But has a sole heart.
That beats in an encounter, in a wonder of a glance,
in a short breath,
the surprise.
In the face of a woman
who’s turning seawards.
In a man who’s recalling
his home from the ship.
It goes on beating to the very last, in a journey and a desire for journey.
In a second of hope kept with an ancient care.
In a photograph of the big bad wolf that distracts our attention while tearing us limb from limb.
 
To life.

Translation from the Italian: Jurgita Po.Alessi