Like every day

It is already 13.12

like every day

but now I read poetry

my back burning in the sun

of a month that’s just confusion,

I feel the time running up my arm

and I go to the window:

the castle is still there,

it reminds me every time how much I love

something that never had a name.

I lost my words

the ones that looked so good on me

and so, if it is already 13.18

it is useless for me to stare at the cold sky

or hold your breath

better stop

certain,

better stop

so those numbers change

and the sky as well.

And also piss yourself off because the evening comes

like every day

and suffer as much as you want

for that useless anguish

of the orange street lamps

that have stolen the sun from the houses

better learn to die

everyday

together with the dying light

as every day.

Concetta Celotto (Italy) unpublished poem translated in English by Slow Words