And I scratch nervously the trembling lines,
I slay the white wrinkled papers,
I cut off mercilessly the head of words,
as if to get revenge of them.
I' m pretty sure,
There exists something,
A very thing,
A Not a thing.
However, I'm not able to cross the bridge
between my feelings and my thoughts
between my thoughts and my language
to recognize what it is.
Language has become bare, childless,
rotten in deep anger.
Language has become self-destructive
unable to cross the bridge between two lands
between two hearts.
She devours herself,
and breaks the mirror
not to see her ugly face.
Is it me?
Is it the very thing?
Is it language itself?
And in the presence of the absence
we all kneel on our knees
praying for a miracle to save us
praying for a new Alphabetic
that fits the new world
because the old words are bombed with anger.
A new Alphabetic
that is not horizontal ,nor vertical, or graphic,
Able to express
to order the terrible mess
to resurrect from Lethe as a Greek goddess
reminding me of the bounty sounds
that have been muted
when the first man
has cried and died in distress.
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