The man looked around him.
Everything was back in place
It was scary to know the past of those for walls, but it was a reality from
which running away was impossible. What was the point in getting so much upset, then?
The windows were stained in red while the sun disappeared to appear in the other hemisphere.
The temperature was slowly going down.
She was meant to arrive soon. -Soon- he repeated -soon.-
Sit on the bed, Wayne stared at the shelter. Revenge, that night, would have
flowed down his jugular vein as every single day flowed down the glass. Night
after night. At Macey’s. Where the good old ‘Al didn’t bother him for a double shot. Where the same Al took away from his pocket not only the green notes that  swallowed his wallet, but also the keys of his pick-up. From where he came back
home drunk, besides on foot. Where he wouldn’t come back. She knew where he was. He felt no regret. The thing that tormented him more was the presence of ghosts. His mind was full of spooky ghosts with terrifying faces,broken and bloody nails. -Don’t blame me,guys – He mumbled under his breath. It was their fault if she’d caught them all,one after the other. Those idiots. -Those idiots of your friends- he added. Cal,Alan and Jack. They were all dead. This was justice. Wasn’t it? Was he to be considered innocent? No. No..He stood there that bloody night, when hell’s doors grinded and creaked with the sound of the bottle breaking in million pieces on the asphalt and filling the air with cracklings,until the moment when the doors finally opened,belching forth their tared content on their heads when the innocent Sarah Barton passed on that street, under that street-lamp. And devils were now blowing on her scars,sprinkling salt there where angels cried after looking away. And now she was looking for them,eagerly, her face was distorted as the glass who lied still on the street,dragging herself along to every street,to every dark corner where  cowards like him used to hide,to feel ashamed of themselves and redeem every night as the first one. But when the angel from hell had come to expiate their crimes and wash the corruption away from their rotten and worn out souls,they cried as innocent children and, maybe, thought Wayne, they really repented,for once, they really knelt with pure and shiny tears rolling down their cheeks that, although big, weren’t enough to extinguish those burning flames that were already wrapping themselves up their lives, getting stronger and eager while consuming them.Their remorse dripped warm and slow down their clothes and on the black tiles of the pavement and they still holding their blasphemous prayers in their mouths. If the coffins had been opened,you would have found their corpses no more blackened than before, when their chest still rose and lowered rhythmically; decomposition had already started years before, on the greasy neck of that bottle, thick as their fear that got bigger and bigger as it screamed,stronger and stronger every time, drugged, hysterical. He was waiting for her,sitting over there,the clock ticked, showing no mercy.
He gave another look to the bottled he’d put on the beside table, the bitter
liquid stagnant on the surface. He thought about that paper-mâché angel with her glass eyes which broke up that very same hour ten years before. Maybe he would have seen the cracks, maybe just a deep darkness. His mouth had dried and his throat was on fire with thirst which dug deep scars on it.
At ten o’clock the doors opened smoothly and her figure,slinky and curvilinear, walked into the darkness. The thin and graceful hand pressed the switch. He knew that she wanted to see, to be fed and maybe, just maybe, the thirst of both of them would have been satisfied that night.
He accepted her the way she was.
She seemed to crawl,as a long shadow, under the door, like a pale,shiny ghost who was showed to him alive. Her face was covered by a veil. When she removed it, blood and time seem to levitate on air,suspended,right on them. A chill in the frozen silence. She didn’t talk as she walked,the yearning was still impressed in her soft and shiny eyes, unspoilt from how he remembered them. As he felt the chilling touch of the knife on his warm skin (“I’ll be sweet”), every defense was lost,he remembered a few lines of a poem, simple words came back to him while everything that used to surround his presence was fading away: “The cemetery is an open space among the ruins,covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death,to think that one should be buried in such a sweet place”. With Shelley’s words that lulled is mind softly and calmly,little by little, He disappeared in a sea made of fog and nothing and uncertainties, in an unnatural calm, unknown to him, filled with loneliness and without any regret. And, for a second, just for one second, the fear that held him and filled his soul all throughout his life since he remembered seemed to vanish and he realized that he never wanted so much to keep on living as in that moment, with so much strength.
The dawn was already coming inside from the window.
Everything was in its proper place.. except for the man who lied on the bed,
who was smiling, dressed in a suit, the sun entangled between his iris and eyelashes.


Leggere il post in italiano – Read this post in Italian

'Translations', ..in lingua.., English, Poesie


Sta arrivando l’uomo nero,
che scivola sotto i letti,
che fa scricchiolare i cardini
delle ante degli armadi,
i brividi che corrono dietro al collo
il sangue che gela nel silenzio.
Un soffio alla candela nel buio,
un fruscio, un alito di vento
ed un grido di morte.
La mano bianca saetta nell’aria
ed altro non afferra
che tenebre.


The bogeyman is coming:
He crawls under beds,
He makes the cabinet doors creak;
Chills run down your spine,
Blood freezes in silence.
A blow hits the candle in the darkness,
A hiss,a gust of wind and a cry of death.
The white hand flashes at lightning speed
And catches nothing
But shadow.