When I asked if it would be a good idea to post some of my ... stuff... here, someone replied "yes!". It's his/her fault. Not mine.

I wrote what's following some years ago, for an English class; my teacher gave me 7/10 or such for the English, 10/10 for the idea and 4/10 as a final mark because it caused her a strong depression.

Now it's your time.

Sunflower.

************************************************
(A poem for a friend)

Straight and long was the road,
faster and faster the car was running;
it was the beginning of a sweet summer,
sitting at your side, he was smiling.

The steering wheel held by his strong hands,
the engine singing out loud;
you didn't know that Madam Death
was waiting for you.

You didn't know that Death was there,
it's so strange for one so young
to think that her fate will come
and take her by the hand.

You didn't know it,
but what've been your thoughts
when the road went crazy,
when the car rolled on its side?

You didn't know it,
but what've been your feelings
when the sky collapsed on you,
when your life ran away?

There's only silence
and bent, burned metal;
on the road you were looking for life,
Madam Death has pulled you over.

Now I'm wondering what's the reason
behind living and loving and suffering,
spending at the best every day
and then, so early, go away.

But I want to cherish the tought
of my friend still alive;
listen again at your voice,
remember you always smiling.

*********************************************

(What we aren't)

Do you see those clouds in the sky,
do you feel a strange season in the air?

That night the fog will suddenly whisper
when General Winter will come.

Do you hear a plane that flies away,
do you hear the sound of a piano?

That's an out of tune Mozart,
he tries again and again
but doesn't find any reason to be.

Do you hear the voice of old courtyards,
of old rusted cars in the grass?

That's the pale sign of older wounds,
of letters you'd never send.

Do you remember those old fairy tales,
do you know that we're nothing anymore?

We aren't a plane
or an out of tune piano;
we aren't a season,
or a wound or a tale.

Do you know the roads that go in the desert,
the smelly misterious suburbs,
railways that go nowhere
(or is that a bed, an alcove)?

Do you know the blues in an infinite land?
Do you need me for the whole life
or a day as many others?
Do you know that we're nothing anymore?

We aren't the blues
or a road, a train, a suburb;
we aren't the land
or a day or a life.

We aren't the dust in a dark corner,
we aren't the sun over the land,
we aren't,
we aren't,
we aren't.

The sunset is changing the colours in the sky,
the clouds are a second-run movie;
it's the eternal voice that whispers
we aren't,
we aren't,
we aren't.