Bombardemento Nomade
Angelo Mai | Altrove Occupato Rome, Italy 2014
BOMBARDAMENTO NOMADE (extract)
We don’t draw geography,
geography draws us instead,
on the bank of a river,
in the North of the novel,
they say the revolution is defined by spring,
no colors,
no time,
to rely on a common sense,
from now on,
just repulsion at the exaltation of your soul,
the freshly painted picture frames in the gallery of revolt stayed empty,
bombing, bombing, bombing,
in images and concepts,
bombing, bombing, bombing,
in frightened glances,
bombing, bombing, bombing,
in fast translations,
and in lovers’ beds,
the random not-randomly-white woman is counted,
among the occident’s self-proclaimed “we” as long,
as the bombings of images remain dust in her lashes,
falling with the next wink,
caution,
who dares to shift the border of its body,
to the crater in the eyes of the attacked ones,
in the airplane, fixing the gaze on the ground,
following the line from here to there
or losing orientation over the sea,
forgetting the place that is claimed to be yours,
the body fluttering from here to there,
at each border
reality fires a shot in the feathers.
They are still leaving,
nor mountains nor seas are preventing them,
they are prophets, even if they could not be,
Eighty hundred birds fly, direction « Orient »
I said: The direction is the traveler’s myth,
soon the foreign will know,
on a land that does not respond to any greeting,
the myth will only be interpreted by the myth,
She said: how can I carry the load of abstraction all alone?
Come, we will count on the beautiful despair again,
Schopenhauer was a pianist too,
WE, WOOH, WOOH
C’è una piccola isola, non lontano da dove sono nata
dove sostano i migratori nel viaggio dall’Africa verso Nord,
there’s a small island, not far from where I was born,
where immigrants stop halfway through the journey from Africa to the North,
È il luogo più amato dagli uccelli in viaggio,
è l’unico che in tanti scelgono per la sosta nel mediterraneo.
nature is flourishing,
humanity!
for a long time, stuck,
in a prison cell,
free thinkers are locked in a square meter,
the solidarity of those animals,
the only ones that visit them,
still moves me at a feminine crossroads,
migratory creatures,
no liquids,
no gravity,
soon the wind will inhabit what we already began,
WE, WOOH, WOOH, WOOH, WE
Wehe die es wagt den Rand ihre Körpers zu verschieben
an den Krater in den Augen der Getroffenen
caution, who dares to shift the border of its body,
to the crater in the eyes of the attacked ones,
Die frisch gemalten Bilderrahmen auf der Gallerie der Revolte sind leer geblieben,
the freshly painted picture frames in the gallery of revolt stayed empty.
