Davide Rocco Colacrai

The last color of things (11/09/2001)

You will rise, you will rise no more towers, but stems, prayer’s lilies – Mario Luzi Davide Rocco Colacrai

Switzerland/Italy

It's a Tuesday in September, the streets drunk by the season, the nose to pierce the air, as if it was searching for that smell, of the limitless and amniotic fluid, of the half sleep next to it, thoughts across the heart, anxiety, and the sidewalks while exhaling the silence of the coming and going, the fast, almost flimsy, spaces of the steps, dreams tied to the knot of the night, the one I promised myself to be the last cigarette, the noises, and their overlooking the loneliness of the city, me feeling like a stranger when surviving is an act of love.

Death is a sudden mother, walking barefoot, head bowed, that awakens our name from every pore and its story, strips its body, fills mouths that have lost their shape, silences the song of time, cancels that weightless tick-tock that saturates even the rain, invents insomnia’s fantasies, far from here, and cheats the memory, and denies the land when tomorrow is a doodle of waiting.