In Bianco E Nero

I look at a picture of my mother
she was happy, maybe three years old
holding a doll to her chest
the most coveted gift
It was her birthday party
a faded black and white
I look at my mother back then and see
my own smile

And to think how many times
I felt her far away
And to think how many times…

I wanted to talk to her about me
at least ask her why
the long and hostile silences
and moments of neglect
I always showed myself inflexible
inaccessible and proud
internally combative
fearing a silly rivalry

I look at a picture of my mother
she was happy, maybe twenty years old
hair tied up in a silk scarf
and a faded expression
Clear view of the sixties
of a radiant Catania
I scrutinize her thoroughly and find
my own gaze

And to think how many times
I felt her far away
And to think how many times…

I wanted to talk to her about me
at least ask her why
the long and hostile silences
and that arbitrary indifference
I always showed myself inflexible
inaccessible and proud
internally combative fearing
innate rivalry

I wanted to talk to her about me
at least ask her why
I wanted to talk to her about me
at least ask her why…