I’m a little more alone
without my dreams
and this display
without graffitoes
doesn’t reflect
my sadness.
I must invent again
a dream-play
and dip in it
to believe
to be able to fill with words
the Cahos that doesn’t need them,
the heart playing,
happy,
only with time.
But I’m only able to make a fairy tale
and look at it
growing teeny
raised on the yards
flyed over by the seagulls
transparent of adventures,
entangled in my thoughts
fallen in love with life.
Alessia Biasiolo 