was born in Oviedo (Asturias-Spain) in 1977. She has contributed to the Young Poetry of Asturias Anthology titled The Shared Word (Oviedo, 1997), in the project Poetry in a Box by Eider Goñi Uribeetxeberria for the School of Fine Arts of Oviedo, in the anthology Dogs bark (Pluma Libre, Perú, 2007) and to a tribute to the painter Carlos Cabrero Reading From a Drowned World. She is the author of an unpublished book of poetry titled A Brief Proof of a Look and of a collection of short stories titled Parallel Reality.

She has collaborated in different literary magazines, such as Pretexto, Fábula, Luzdegás, Magenta and Clarín. Nowadays she is preparing the publication of her first book, The Greek Notebook.

When is the Funeral?

Translation by Peter Imoro

It was exactly seven o’clock. A thick and obscure silence inundated the whole room. There were voices in the kitchen and in the hallway; the whole family was there. But no one dared enter and see the dying man’s face. Adela made coffee for everyone; the doctor said it would be a question of two or three hours more.

Someone informed the eldest daughter. “It seems he is trying to say something, but I don’t understand a thing,” someone whispered to her by the coffeepot. Adela called her brothers and entered the room. There he was; nothing was left of that man; he was now a corpse trapped between four walls. All stayed the same, as he liked it: the clothes on the floor, the old and discolored blanket, the humid smell, the half broken window and an intense cold, as if no living thing remained there. She approached the bed and tried to make sense of what her father repeated over and over again.

“At what time is the funeral?” Adela finally managed to understand. “What funeral?” She tried to feign surprise. “What are you talking about?” “My funeral, at what time is the funeral?” He repeated with much effort. “You are not going to die, dad, what a silly thing to say… All is going to be alright. You only need to rest. Not even she believed what she was saying. “Is there enough money? Is there any money? Do I have any money?” he insisted, this time, weakly and intelligibly. “But money for what? What do you need money for now?” She did not understand a thing. “For my funeral. Do I have enough money for the funeral?” and a tiny, and almost involuntary, tear came down his right eye.

Adela left the room, raised her head and looked at her sisters, one after the other. She asked them where their father’s savings bank book was. Theresa pointed to the room. Adela entered the room again and, without looking at him, she opened the first drawer and took the booklet. She searched attentively. The exact quantity was one hundred and fifty euros. She closed the booklet and heard a strange, abrupt and distant breathing; everyone heard it clearly. “At what time is the funeral? At what time?” He said, closing his eyes.


Translation by Peter Imoro

“I have already set the table. Supper will be in five minutes.” She said.

“I’ll be there in a minute.” Anselmo shouted from the shower.

He shaved, got dressed and came down the stairs. He was starved. He sat at the table and grabbed a piece of bread. Then he saw the plates; four plates. He knew what that stood for. She entered, smiling.

“I have been locked up all afternoon in the kitchen preparing your lasagna, and here it is, better than ever. It turned out perfectly.” “Marisa, there are four plates on the table. You know that the kids are never coming back,” he said, half shocked and desperate. “I know, I know very well, but they loved lasagna. Somehow, they are here; I know they are still in this house, at least today, this night.

Neither of the two said even a word more. When they finished dining, Anselmo went to bed. Marisa cleared the table, but she did not dare to take away their plates. When Anselmo got up the next day, the four plates and half of the lasagna were still there on the table. Suddenly, he felt that he had to leave that house immediately.


Tanslation by Peter Imoro

There were two men talking by the door. They hardly noticed her. They were eating fries, drinking beer and laughing out loudly. When the doors opened, Sophia entered slowly trying to avoid being noticed. It was nine o’clock. The supermarket was empty; it was only her and the two men. She picked up a cart, although she knew that it was too big for her, but she hated those little baskets. She stopped at each one of the shelves: those for donuts, drinks, canned foods…. She went to the meat section and examined each piece of meat, sausage, everything. In the fish section, she did not notice anything. Without ever knowing why, she always felt nauseous when she saw a dead fish. An hour later, she decided to turn around and, slowly, very slowly, go to the freezers. She was still a distance away when she saw them, but she could make out their perfectly delineated pink, blue and green surroundings, their perfect symmetry and those three big stars. She parked the cart and, without realizing it, began to run. She had lost control again. One after the other, she began to pick up ice creams of varying flavors —strawberry, cream, chocolate, and chocolate with nuts, blueberry … — until her lap was full. The ice cream fell onto the floor one after the other, but she kept on and on. The forty euros she had in her pocket, the only money she had, would never suffice. Her life was reduced to forty euros in the pocket. He had taken away the kids while she was asleep. Since she began taking the pills, she had difficulty getting out of bed in the mornings; her sleep had become too heavy and dense. This would be the last time. She knew it; she would never see them again. She thought about Andrea, the small one, and all the ice cream she had succeeded in holding onto in her left hand fell down. She sat on the floor. The salesperson in charge came running and when she saw her there, on the floor, covered with some sought of thick and colored paste, she looked so pathetic to him that he decided not to pass by that place again until eleven o’clock. Sofia felt very cold. It is cold in hell, she thought. It’s all a lie, it’s all a lie, she murmured while she got up.

The Mole

Translation by Peter Imoro

He was still stunned by the blow. He turned his head and saw that his brother wasn’t moving. He called his mother. She did not respond. Mom, mom… He groaned because his whole body hurt. He tried to unbuckle his belt. Once he was free, he approached the seat in the front row. Mom… but that wasn’t his mother; he could hardly make out her face in between the hodgepodge of metal. He searched for her hand and brought it to his face. It was cold, frozen. He looked at his brother again. He was lying on the small chair motionless as if he was asleep. His shirt was stained with blood. The girl moved backwards, pushed the door again and again. She couldn’t; she did not have the strength. She pushed with her legs and her head. She fell on the asphalt and, suddenly, she felt like an adult. The highway was empty. The car no longer looked blue. Her preferred color had always been blue. She began to walk. She limped and felt a sharp pain in the head. The weather was very hot. She continued walking for a while. Suddenly, she stopped. Something was moving on the edge of the highway. He went towards there. It looked like a rat. Each time his head hurt even more. The sun prevented him from seeing what it was that was moving. A rat, he thought. He went closer. Suddenly, he remembered that animal they had found in the garden the previous week. His father had said that that wasn’t a rat but a mole. That word sounded weird to him, more like a made up word. But now he knew that that was real; that thing which was twisting around on the curb was a mole.


Translation by Peter Imoro

The old man usually went hunting by himself; him and that dog which followed him everywhere ever since he showed up at the railings. The weather was no longer cold. Winter was just starting. It was early, eight or nine o’clock in the morning. The forest seemed like the quietest place in the world. The rifle weighed more than the last time. Now he began to take notice of the age issue. While sniffing around, the dog followed him discreetly. It was almost two years since he last went hunting.

There was hardly anything left there that was worth the trouble. He glimpsed a clearing in the distance. He decided to get down and let the dog have a drink while he took a glance. The river still had a lot of water but it was unlike the one he knew as a child. All had changed; now he was alone. He recalled his father fishing in that same river, close to home, and when he and his brother used to bathe and slide down with the stones. It was by this river that he won over Teresa and convinced her of his love while he raised her skirt. She resisted but that never bothered him, not before or after twenty years of marriage. Now she was dead and he was still there, hunting, with that dog, which was as old as he was.

A scream drew the attention of the dog. It went off running upwards, towards the forest. The old man picked up the rifle and climbed. When he was about to call out to the dog, he remembered that he did not know its name; that is if it had one. He whistled. He suddenly stopped, trying to hear something; he heard nothing. No sign. He continued walking. He thought he saw two boys running away. He heard their laughter and a whimper close by. He approached the place from which they seemed to be fleeing. His instinct told him that nothing good was happening there. Now, he could not hear anything, neither laughter nor a voice. The dog suddenly appeared between the bushes. Without knowing why, he was happy to see it. He hated that dog because it reminded him of him himself; it was ugly and skinny and each and every one of its ribs was showing. It was obvious that it had received more than one blow. The dog came to him waving its tail. It had something in the mouth. The old man bent down and took it; it was a piece of cloth with flowers and many colors. The dog barked proud of its discovery. Again, he heard crying close by. He gestured to make it stop barking and then he went towards the bushes from which the dog had come out. He saw a half naked girl, clumsily moving away, falling at each step. Her hair was disheveled and she was walking away aimlessly. The old man decided that it was time to go back home. It was twelve and he was hungry. He gestured to the dog, put his rifle on his left shoulder and walked away. The dog picked up the piece of cloth in its mouth and followed the old man.

The Dead Ones

Translation by Peter Imoro

Dead, dead, dead… his inner voice kept repeating to him. Dead, dead… it kept on again and again, incessantly. She hardly remembered his curved and constantly cold nose, the raincoat hanging on the rack and the umbrella by the door. He met him one summer day while he was enjoying a vacation in aunt Angelica’s house, in the country. They were almost kids. Carmen whispered to his ear that she was already eighteen. Jaime was twenty five. Aunt Angelica thought he was a weird person; his family had just settled in town, in the house by the lake. People were saying a lot of things then. After three years, Jaime and Carmen got married in the city in an intimate ceremony with few invited guests, only the closest relatives. Carmen was already pregnant at the time. Pablo was born first, next came Mario and the last to come was Lucia, the most expected one, the princess of the house. They were happy. In fact, it could be said that they were always happy, excessively fortunate without any problems or obstacles, as if their lives followed a straight line devoid of fear or bad moments; happiness, pure and simple. When Lucia turned six, Jaime and Carmen gave a big party. His father insisted on getting a clown to entertain the children. Carmen did not like the idea at all. Since childhood, she had an irrational and rather unusual fear for these strange beings who dressed in loud colors. That same morning, Carmen woke up very early, at exactly seven o’clock. She prepared the cake, put the house in order, and went into the garden to organize everything. At eleven o’clock, Carmen hadn’t yet finished the preparations for the party. She still had a lot to do, so she began to get anxious. Time just flew by. She looked at the watch; it was almost a quarter past eleven. The children were still in bed. It seemed strange to her that Jaime wasn’t up yet. She went upstairs to the bedroom. He had to give her a hand in the garden. When she got to the bed, she called out to him and when he did not respond, she shook him; no response. He wasn’t waking up. Carmen kept calling to him, Jaime, Jaime… then she realized it. She put her face close to his mouth and felt nothing; Jaime wasn’t breathing. She felt his pulse, he seemed dead. Then the doorbell rang. She went down the stairs. When she got to the first floor, she realized that she had lost one of the slippers on the way. She opened the door while she fixed her hair. There he was. There was the clown in front of her. I am here for the party, he said smiling. Dead, Carmen said. He is dead, she repeated. She fell on her knees crying. Dead, dead, dead, she repeated to herself again and again. The clown lifted her from the floor and tried to calm her down. Jaime had become the faint shadow of a hooked nose in her memory. She looked at the clothes rack and saw the raincoat and the umbrella beside it. Dead, dead, dead, she heard, incessantly in her head.

Dad Returns Home

Translation by Peter Imoro

One of the interns at the hospital found the girl lying on the floor, on the street, beside the door. Her pants were covered with blood. She was motionless. When he saw her, he wished she were dead. He knew that sometimes it was better not to survive certain things. Nevertheless, he felt her pulse. She was dead; cold, very cold. He covered her with his jacket and lifted her up in his arms. He didn’t want to know anything more. He did not need an autopsy to know the facts. He distanced himself from the horror.

Three days earlier, Maria had been admitted in the emergency ward with multiple bruises, a couple of cuts on the arms, lesions and a brutal gash in the vagina and rectum. On her mouth, she had a wound that was difficult to treat. Maria was five years old. Her mother said that she was a mischievous child and that she had fallen in the bath tub. She explained in detail a whole series of unusual circumstances. She said all this with a whole lot of conviction and the certainty of someone talking about an animal that had outlived its usefulness. She moved anxiously from one end to the other, all along looking at the doctor from the corner of her eye. As far as she was concerned, the bed and the little body that lay on it did not exist. Nothing was ever heard from the father; he did not show up at the hospital. The tests revealed that this was not the first time that the little girl suffered this kind of abuse. Yet all present almost whispered the diagnosis; they whispered as if nobody wanted to face the extreme pain, the desperation of a little girl; as if, deep down, all those who passed through that white room felt, in a strange way, guilty about something. Her nails had blood that did not belong to her. Her hands were cracked, prematurely aged.

Maria barely moved on the bed. From time to time, she groaned and hit the pillow lightly with her head. Without consulting anyone, the nurse decided to alleviate her pain by increasing the dosage of the medication. She felt that, after all the damage that had been caused, it was the least that could be done there. That day, the doctors, without exception, felt that the whole world was guilty for each groan from the child and for each drop of blood.

The head nurse brought to the notice of her superior the fact that this was not the little girl’s first time in the emergency room. She could recall seeing her timidly sitting on the chair waiting for a stretcher while her mother shook her. Everyone knew; it was obvious.

The mother repeated the same excuses the other times that they asked her. With her eyes open, Maria was still lying motionless on the bed. She did not look around her; her gaze was fixed on the wall. She did not look like a little girl; she looked like a tired old woman, a survivor whose memory has taken her to a place in which she is stagnated and from which she can’t or doesn’t know how to return.

When the mother went down to the cafeteria, the social worker tried to speak to the girl. Nothing, Maria had become numb. The only sounds she got from her were like those of a wounded animal. The speech therapist said all could be attributed to accumulated panic. The psychologist was also unable to get anything from her. Maria had remained trapped in fear.

The doctors who attended to her spoke again to the mother. They tried to locate the father; there was no trace of him.

The social worker went to the police station. The police said that this was a matter for social services and that they couldn’t do anything if there wasn’t an accusation of some sort; social services would investigate the case months later, when they found a loophole in so much red tape.

The head nurse felt impotent; she felt her work did not make any sense. Maria returned home with her mother; they discharged her the next day. No one stopped it. Her little face no longer seemed to show anything, as if it had been robbed of all humanity. Her lost gaze reflected a total lost of innocence, as if written in her eyes was the exact moment in which the little girl became aware of barbarity. Maria seemed to carry on her shoulders a lot of weight and an infinite pain.

When the mother left, she forgot to pick up the little girl’s backpack. In it, the nurses found a notebook full of drawings. One could hardly tell the figures apart; monsters, curves, broken lines…. Most of the pages had been torn out. In one of them a drop of dried blood covered the left half.

When Maria arrived home with her mother, his father returned home that same night. He arrived in a tranquil mood. Like always, as soon as he entered, he asked for the little girl. She is resting, the mother said. He went to the room and shut the door. He did not slam the door; he shut it gently, like some one returning to bed after going for a glass of water. The mother continued washing the dishes, one after the other, and after she finished, she started over again. She began to think about what to cook the next day; lasagna, she thought. That was Maria’s favorite dish. She tried to remember how to prepare that pie she used to make when Maria was little. Her mind was blank. She heard something in the room. She closed her eyes and tightened them.

The neighbor next door told her husband that they should call the police once and for all and that things could not continue like that. The children on the fifth floor asked their father what was happening, that who was it that screamed like that? Nothing, nothing was happening, said the father. At five in the morning nothing was heard any more. Finally, silence reigned in the whole building. A dark calm seemed to cover everything.

Maria’s father came out in the terrace to smoke a cigarette. A good night, he said to himself. He enjoyed this sensation calmly. Later he went to the fridge for a beer. He turned on the television and lay on the sofa. He tried to find the best position; he did not feel like going to bed yet. He continued smoking.

The mother decided to go to bed. There was nothing left to clean in the house. The lasagna was ready, the pie too. She took off her apron and went to the bedroom. She passed by Maria’s door and saw the teddy bears on the floor. She kept on walking. It was late. She put on her night gown and opened the windows wide. She took a couple of pills and fell asleep.

Three days later the head nurse, who had attended to the child so many times, bought a huge teddy bear and took it to the cemetery. She should have done something, she thought. She returned to work. It was Monday.

The Gift of the Magi

Translation by Peter Imoro

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you too,” she said.

Marta remembered each and every one of the reasons why she hated that man. Six years. Six years waiting to hear those words of joy. One year of an immense, mad, passionate, beautiful and easy love, by both parties. The year after was a year of deception; and the rest of the following years, years of waiting, without answers. Then the miracle occurred. It was the sixth of January, at four in the morning. I love you, Carlos said, and he said it while on standing on his feet, not in a simple whisper or gasp while in bed. But now, these words did not mean anything to Marta.

When he left for Barcelona leaving her behind in a deserted and hot Madrid, she didn’t say anything either. She kept on waiting. Now she asked herself why? What was special about those words, and she repeated them to herself in her mind over and over again; I love you, I love you… They sounded hollow.

She remembered that afternoon in the office, three years ago, when tired, very, very tired, almost without realizing it, she had said to him I love you dear, as she said goodbye to him on the phone. He hung up without saying anything; not even a single word. But today, without Marta ever making the first move, Carlos had said the magic words. This was supposed to be his gift to her like the gift you give to someone on the Day of the Magi. The Marta of today, of the here and now, who finally saw the man who shared the same bed with her for six long years, for who he really was, would have chosen as a gift for him, tons of charcoal, which she would throw at his face, one for each day and night that she wasted by his side. Marta called out loudly to Carlos. He came out of the bath, wet with a crooked towel:

“I don’t ,” she said.

“What?” I don’t understand. You don’t what…?” he said.

“I don’t love you,” Marta said, more seriously and firmly than ever.

“What a silly thing to say! I am going to dry myself up. After that we will have dinner and watch a movie. Tomorrow we have to get up early to avoid heavy traffic.”

Marta closed her eyes as he left. She did not have to decide anything. She got onto the bed and waited for him. She preferred to wait for another miracle: the definitive one.

Ana Vega, born in Oviedo in 1977, has participated in an anthology of young Asturian poetry La palabra compartida (Oviedo, 1997), in the project Poesia en Caja by Eider Goni Uribeetxeberria for the School of Arts and Trades at the University of Oviedo, in the collection of books Ladran los perros (Ed. Pluma Libre, Peru, 2007), in the book in honor of the Asturian paintor, Carlos Alvarez Cabrero Lecturas de un mundo dibujado, in the book A quien conmigo va, Poesia en Valdedios (Circulo Cultural de Valdedios, 2007), Palabras con Angel edited by the Association of Asturian Writers, the book of sketches Mitologia Asturiana para el siglo XXI (Gijon, Ed. Trea, 2009) and the forthcoming anthology La manera de recogerse el pelo coordinated by David Gonzalez and published by Bartleby press in 2010. Ana Vega formed part of the jury for the “Voces de Chamame” poetry prize in 2008. She is the author of an unpublished book of poems Breve testimonio de una mirada and a book of short stories Realidad paralela. She recently published El cuaderno griego (Universos, 2008). Ana Vega has colaborated with diverse literary publications such as Pretexto, Fabula, Luzdegas, Magenta y Clarin, and other publications such as the La Nueva Espana and Oviedo Diario newspapers. She won the second place prize in the XXVI National Poetry Prize “Hernan Esquio” in 2008. She teaches poetry and short story classes at Talleres de Escritura Sinjania. She taught a poetry workshop at the University of Oviedo in 2009, and coordinated literary meetings, under the name “Literaturate” in La Casa de las Lenguas at the University of Oviedo. She has also taught a creative writing workshop at the Leopoldo Alas Clarin secondary school. She is a columnist for Les Noticies and Oviedo Diario. She has presented Spoken Word with a large variety of musicians and trainings in the Aula de las metaforas in the Casa de Cultura in Grado and the Casa de Cultura in Norena (“Palabra y Jazz). She has collaborated on television in “Café con libros,” which is part of the program ContreSentidos produced by the  Television del Principado de Asturias and she has participated in diverse projects with artists like Juan Falcon.
Traducción Autum Kycia

Because in your timeless eyes

a thousand abysses of past love

are reflected,

because naked without feet, nor hands,

nor waist, I beg the night

for the stillness of your skin

to change me into marble,

because lips and mouths

that disguise themselves as you

to forget you hurt me,

because molded by your hands,

breath of your breath,

clay and earth, ash of your desires

with the bitterness of your kisses

I survive you,

because I, flesh and blood of your life,

keep the memory of your goodby

in my lap,


your creature made verb.


They do not know.

They do not understand.

They, those who yell outside,

who don’t listen.

Those who try

To close their eyes

facing the lie.

The truth of man

hurts too much.

Man is converted

in man

when he decides

to follow his own rules

No god

put his hands

over any

wounded child


The plague of this century

is the blindness

that we all

impose upon ourselves

every day

to save ourselves.

There is no dignity

in that.

There is no dignity

In swallowing spit

and continuing

as if nothing

was happening.


I speak from the bone,

from open flesh.

I remember


the night

in which I understood

that pain doesn’t abandon you.

It arrives, transforms

changes, but never dies.

Pain doesn’t kill,

they are all wrong,

they all lie.

When it touches you

your face is no longer the same.

It grabs you hard, lets you go,

But the treaty is only a con

Only part of the road

that it imposes.

There is nothing stronger.

And nothing makes you stronger.

The phrase is well-known:

Damaged people

are dangerous

they know how to survive.

You kill yourself,

he doesn’t get dirty.


The light has gone out

in the room,

there is no one.

The darkness dazzles you

like a precious stone.

It digs into you everywhere.

That foreboding

of dead things

old furniture

invades you.

The arrival of that determined


in which everything has been.

Nthing belongs to you anymore.


The light leaves no trace

anymore in any live


Watch the passing of hours

like a funeral march

towards the familiar.

And every past returns,

and returns,

and hurts my eyes

like the first time.


The wall weighs on me. The whole house.

There is so much space.

It is all extra.

I’m missing


The house is an unknown ocean.

The smell of skin is white,

not like anything,

isn’t anything,

has lost all humanity.

I no longer distinguish

between the wall

and the flesh.

The silence is brutal. It burns.

To survive is not to be saved.


Four walls, two hundred tiles,

two eyes, a mouth, lips alone,

numbers that don’t help or smile,

that leave too much space.

Space, everywhere,

at point-blank range,

cold, empty,

like a breath that floods you.


I don’t want to see more.

Wounded. Broken.

The blind clarity. Burns from the inside.

Darkness in the entrails

of the house.

Scream without a voice.

The absense of the gesture.

the nothingness.


Every time that I make

the slight effort

to beat my hand

against that wall

that only I see,

every time that I refuse

then, really,

I feel alone.

One cannot fight,

nor dodge the blows,

the lonliness

is going through the wall

but further inside.


Matilde entered the house. She found her aunts on the floor, dead. Their bodies had bite marks everywhere. As if a wild animal – not very large – had devoured them. She studied the bite marks: small teeth, sharp… James, her aunt Agnes’ cinnamon colored mastiff, was next to his owner’s corpse, full of scatches. Matilde, enraged, went to look for the cat.


Hardly anything remains.

A pure and simple kiss

in the gaze.

That tremble.

A disconnected gaze

and little else.

Defeats, above all.

Battles tattooed

on the whole body.

A terrifying




And behind the door

another closed


Farther than the eye can see

another immense wall

that _______ behind the door.

One, two, three, fourteen closed


and the hope of one who observes

the sea

and trusts.

Only that,

farther from the eyes,

where the body

doesn’t reach.


If you save me

from the cold,

I promise to abandon




(If you save me from the cold)

Εάν με σώσεις

από το κρύο,

σου υπόσχομαι

ότι θα εγκαταλείψω το χειμώνα για πάντα....

Traducción María Durán y Marietta Zaloni

Traduzione Giuliana Manfredi
la ferita come confine industriale
Del territorio intimo in cui dimora
La mia anima,
che i cipressi nidifichino sulle mie gambe,
E ad esse trasferiscano sicuro intatto vigore,
Nutrendo l’edera attraverso me come l’oblio.
Soltanto lasciarsi andare adesso. Ascendere
Come materia informe, foglie dal cui orgoglio
Nasce la costruzione del cielo.
Le mie mani tessono l’abitudine di analizzare
La terra con parole, si barcamenano indomite
E un poco smarrite in questo lavoro agricolo
Di estirpare dal più profondo, di strappare
All’uomo e alla donna la benda
Che questo mondo di febbrile apparenza
Pose sui loro occhi per sigillare la sua lucentezza più chiara.
Soltanto immagini di quel che potrebbe esistere
Senza essere ancora visto, né percepito.
La strada che va dritta e anche quella perduta.
Avanzare tra le fiamme
Della coscienza e non vedere via d’uscita.
Sentire il mondo in forma così violenta
E appassionata ma anche allontanarsene
E avvicinarsi al nulla.
Ammutolire dinanzi a tale ipocrisia e bellezza
Ancora possibile nello sguardo del bambino che sento intatto.
analisi dal centro
respiro corto
nel riconoscersi nell’abietto, nell’oscuro,
in questa metà che neghiamo
per paura d’essere visti e giudicati,
oscuro e profondo vincolo
verso l’origine
il bambino che fummo e tutto il suo dolore
quando forte stringeva le mani
come l’ adulto
che in quel momento era
che conosceva già il suo vero futuro
le unghie conficcate
in eterno…