I Matti

The crazy ones go happily, between the fields and the railway.
Hunting for crickets and snakes, hunting for crickets and snakes.
The crazy ones go happily, leashed by their madness,
hunting for crickets and snakes, between the fields and the railway.
The crazy ones have nothing left, no city around them anymore,
even if they scream, who hears them, even if they scream, what’s it to me.
The crazy ones go happily, on the edge of normality,
like shooting stars, in the sea of Tranquility.
Carrying big plastic bags weighing as much as their hearts,
full of trash and silence, full of cold and noise.
The crazy ones don’t have a heart, or if they do, it’s wasted,
it’s a cave all black.
The crazy ones still thinking about a train that never arrived
and a wife taken away by who knows what storm.
The crazy ones without a license to walk,
the crazy ones all their lives, locked up in the night.
The crazy ones go happily, stopping traffic with their hands,
then crossing the morning, with the help of a bottle of wine.
They stop for long hours, to rest their bones and wings,
their bones and wings, and inside the churches, they go to smoke,
hundreds of cigarettes in front of the altar.