Monet War Zone. I was a winter soldier, bro.

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Ero un soldato d’inverno.

Ma non trovai la mia zona di atterraggio quella notte, fratello.
Fischiavano forte i bengala viola lassù,
ma ormai l’unica cosa che sentivo era il dolore.
Nè la vista, nè l’udito, nè sapore.
L’odore era acre di rabbia e paura, ma ne ero saturo.
Il tatto era calcinato indurito furente freddo.
Straniero.
Non trovai la mia zona di atterraggio quella notte, fratello.
Faceva troppo male.
Troppo scuro, lontano.
Il fiato spezzato, l’occhio crepato.
Dio, come faceva male tutto questo.
Volevo andare.
Per te.
Volevo restare.
Per te.
Dannazione, hai perso un po’ della tua anima quella notte, vero?
Le dita sulle costole le sentivo.
Ma sotto quelle dorsali sbrecciate c’era un filo di vento, poco, troppo poco.
E nella cavernosa grotta poco movimento.
Dentro me c’era freddo e dolore.
Dov’era il cielo?
Dove?

Erano abbracci silenziosi e perenni sul crinale della sofferenza e della gioia.
Esistenze concentriche.
Discese notturne al buio, cadute in shock, avvitamenti incontrollati.
Il coltello da combattimento traccia archi di farfalle multicolori nella nebbia.
Le nostre ferite erano lampi di luce, il cammino era ancora lungo e silenzioso.
Cavalcando i marosi imperscrutabili, accecati dai flutti nebulizzati di quell’immenso mare che é sia redenzione che salvataggio, chi salva e chi é salvato?
Ognuno é l’altro e se stesso e nessuno allo stesso tempo,
ci guardammo allontanarci l’uno dall’altro con gli scarponi rotti, le parole spezzate e un vocabolario ormai lontano dall’uomo, o dal gatto.
Tenevamo lo sguardo inchiodato a terra e al cielo. Eravamo caduti, dispersi, morti sopravvissuti e vivi, tutto e niente insieme. Chiedendoci i perché, ci salutammo stringendoci le mani doloranti, ci ritroveremo con un sorriso.
Forse, fratello o sorella.

 

I was a winter soldier.

But I didn’t find my landing zone that night, brother.
The purple flares whistled loudly up there,
but now the only thing I felt was pain.
Neither sight, nor hearing, nor taste.
The smell was bitter with anger and fear, but I was saturated with it.
The feel was calcined hardened cold furious.
Foreigner.
I didn’t find my landing area that night, brother.
It hurt too much.
Too dark, far away.
The broken breath, the cracked eye.
God, how all this hurt.
I wanted to go.
For you.
I wanted to stay.
For you.
Damn, you lost some of your soul that night, didn’t you?
I felt the fingers on the ribs.
But under those chipped ridges there was a little wind, little, too little.
And in the cavernous cave little movement.
It was cold and pain inside me.
Where was the sky?
Where is it?

They were silent and perennial embraces on the ridge of suffering and joy.
Concentric existences.
Night descents in the dark, falls in shock, uncontrolled twists.
The combat knife traces bows of multicolored butterflies in the fog.
Our wounds were flashes of light, the path was still long and silent.
Riding the inscrutable waves, blinded by the misty waves of that immense sea that is both redemption and salvation, who saves and who is saved?
Each is the other and himself and none at the same time, we looked away from each other with broken boots, broken words and a vocabulary now far from the man,
or from the cat.
We kept our eyes on the ground and the sky. We had fallen, lost, survived dead and alive, all and nothing together. Asking us why, we greeted each other, shaking our hands in pain, and we will meet again with a smile.
Maybe, brother or sister.

 

 

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