You connect the dots, ignoring the numbers,
and find a topography of damage,
the breakdown lane scattered with shattered dreams,
recognizable fragments littering the culvert . . .
You begin counting backwards from 100
as your mother suggested years ago
intimidated by the absence of footholds
yet eager to move on . . .
Are you happy with whom you've become? . . .
With the self forged by past events? . . .
You're not one to look back . . .
You grab your backpack, leave your room,
and begin the trek, mindful of the signposts
for love, for betrayal, for the bagpipes' eerie call . . .
The voices in your head continue . . .
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| Antonio Palmerini |