The fig tree

Towards the rising sun

Men carry the ground in huge locks

women are tied on the locks with thick ropes

they stare blankly

the sky of coal and cardboard shatters on their shoulders

it stains their hands with ivory dust.

The rains bath the fresh wounds

the wind scatters the remnants of broken lives

over the heads of newborns

Lovers throw their anchors in quicksand

they carry each other’s curses

*

Towards the sunset there are only ruins

brand new ruins

of freshly plastered houses

or luxury cars

ruins everywhere

It’s not a week since they leave the factory

and all things crumble

All over place

modern fiberglass buildings

through which the ruins groan

Strong bridges over which high-speed trains pass

all in ruins

A civilization as extinct as the one of the Romans

The souls of the natives speak a dead language

their gestures are faded and mechanical like those ones of ghosts

you look into their eyes and you see clearly that they are dead.

Dead.

*

There is no way to live here.

The ruins advance towards the few survivors like an unstoppable wave.

Everything turns into a pile of dust and landfill

which blows an ivory powder into the air.

I’ve lived on the edge for years.

I lean over the gap to say goodbye.

Towards the rising sun the sky swallowed the whole earth.

Towards the sunset, the earth collapsed over the sky.

*

Pieces of the world crept into me

like rainwater through the cracks of the walls.

I get rid of them

I’ll go with my love to the wilderness.

It doesn’t matter what age in the history.

He used to hunt since he was seven, like Enkidu.

He had a fig tree that is no longer.

It doesn’t matter what language is spoken in those lands.

No matter the name of the shore or the mountain,

the shape of the cave in which we will hide.

*

We’ll run away to towards the beginning of time

*

I’m going to plant a new fig tree for you, my love.

Somewhere

I do not know where

I’ll see.