Gabriella Chieffo Italy Quasicielo

The noise of the rain. I can associate everything with the sound of rain. I think I've always known it, but there's a precise moment in which you realize what you're not, and maybe later, like glass cutting, what you are. And then you learn to want to plan, because the single breath can appear to be a challenge. And the voices, the voices ... The ones that follow you when you're alone, those who amputate you and undress you and mark you while you are silent. The wind noise. I can still pray with the sound of the wind. To pray for an identity, for the recognition of a mirror, to pray not to be a cross. And my father, defeated his monsters, looks at me with love even if he cries looking at the stars. The sound of the sea. I can find the sound of the sea inside me, and it's storm sometimes that hooks my stomach, and I look at myself and I do not find myself, I look at myself and I do not see myself. It is the indignation of wonder ... and I would be ready to be amazed every day if only it were not a blade. The noise of the sky. I can hear the sound of the sky inside me and then I know where the waves come from, I listen to the cat's gaze and I count the finished verses in which the poetry melts. Your poetry. And when you smell of embrace and in the width of your lips I find myself, your eyes become almost sky. My Quasicielo.