Spaghetti at the end of the adventure
In the evening of a Friday
With a bitter taste.
Sneaky but friendly
The pasta wraps me and my doubts
While the future holds a secret.
I feel no cold in me
At Christmas time.
The weeks waiting
and the colours of the fire
Make me anticipate its value each year
And now is September
And I am already holding the calendar.
Carrots dance on the window sill
Watching my spaghetti getting dressed
For the party.
I touch and feel
The richness and roughness of the pasta
That brings sun into my home.
The arrival home
Is a proper for the intense day
As the boiling stew expects
a smile and a daily achievement.
The day closes sweet and homey
After hours in the artificial world
That takes your breath away.
Dreaming at any time of the day
Opens a window in a stale room
Filled with old ideas and conservatives.
The struggle to plan the future
Is amplified at each step
By the stories and free advices
Who had little to explore in their days
But care and are afraid
Unplug the crowd
and burst a sphere of silence
If you love me.
Decibels in millions are irritant
And have their nemesis
In hugs, avoidance, and personalization.
Accept reality, ignore its sound.
Humans have failed
As social animals
And lonely enjoy now
The pungent flavor
Of personal success.
Alone with their own rules,
They select and analyse
Components of the same herd
Whole convinced of traveling alone.
Hours have been spent
On research projects with no taste
And the days passed like a single breath.
You don’t know how
But midsummer is here
And you are not prepared.
Time to take those emergency holidays.
The distance you cannot measure
Keeps you locked and bound to the ground
Like a chain of steel.
Kilometers of memories and nostalgia
Unroll reach moment
Their loving faces emerge
From the corner of thoughts
To be able to go on.
Those eyes whisper my reward
After an intense day of fight.
They secure my hugs and promises
for the future.
Many hours waiting for this moment
of appreciation and safety
In our home.
Tell me a story
That was never written
that has a cowboy traveling alone
And a horse who missed her friends.
A story with a farm and a dog
Smelling like peach flowers
And cut grass
Is my favourite.
Tel me a story you lived
And that I will tell my children
But will never write.
Proteins come in families
And ask you to choose your favorite,
As families do.
You value efficiency, you appreciate stability,
But colour and shape can dictate their popularity
Like little heroes in a fantasy novel
That becomes reality.