Bitter tropics

a poem about love itself

it wasn’t me who invented love by my ignorance

the same way the painter doesn’t have the heart

to mix pure colors

it was there

in the times when I used to swot the differences

between useful beautiful and pleasing

 

first of all there grew a tree with red leaves

like man’s or woman’s lips before the first kiss

leaves were another kind of hands

trembling

preparing to fall

rustle over rustle till the last silence

 

only by chance I shared the same shadow

with a stranger

for the jealousy of those who did not know me

I waited for centuries close to the old tree trunk

my cheek against the dry ground

I couldn’t refuse him when he asked me

to lend him a leaf

and I didn’t even know

where do young butterflies hide when it rains bitter

 

people say that

after a day that tree was brought down

today no one kills himself

because of love

they’re simply killed little by little

Author's Note

I am sorry but someone destroyed AGAIN the quality of my video.