Even if you can't see it, I swear that it has a rich purple fur!

Dear friends, I am a bit proud of this unplanned poetry that came out, which is very personal and talks about my never ending and, at times, melancholic trips. I wish you could read it in Italian, because this little poem has assonances and rhymes and I wanted to give it a certain rhythm that comes out only when you read it in my native language.
I will make a free prose translation in English too. Hope you will enjoy both!

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A purple squirrel

The road is unscrolling in front of my eyes, ten years of this road. The vector, the junction between the protrusions of islands of life.
The birthplace of nothing, suspended, don’t breath.

There was a time where I was incredible, now all I can do is to be fully fitted with accessories.

Ten years are sufficient for the volumes to suicide progressively, the abstraction prevails. No depth, just lines at the side of the road, reality is thinner, aborted ideas in the mind of a purple squirrel.

Look at those birch trees, observe them closer and you will see that they’re only the scaffolds of an abandoned cinema set.

One day I will accept your invite, purple squirrel, and dance with you in slow spirals, goodspeed to the little men on the vector. One day a purple squirrel will come for them too.

Scoiattolo viola

La strada si snoda di pioggia svogliata, dieci anni di strada.
Vettore, giuntura fra gli arti di vite diverse ma uguali,
la patria del nulla, sospesa ma lasca, mai stessa, mai nasca la storta fortuna.
Dieci anni di luna son purga bastante per radere al suolo il volume del niente.
Le forme si sfaldano il tre cangia in due, l’astratto prevale nell’occhio di bue
di un polmone che inerte, in dieci anni di vita, si smaga e t’invita allo iato.
Purpurea visione, scoiatttolo alchemico, in coppe incrostate
beviamo veleno, indugiamo a spirale, dieci anni di viaggio per quello che vale.
Valevan le risa, gioielli rubati che piango, ma lasciami andare.
Mi sfaldo, mi sciapo, mi faccio tessuto d’asbesto, migliaia di stringhe confuse nel tardo
venire del niente che prende terreno. Dieci anni di meno.