At last

there’s always the same

dirty, devastated street

that takes me to my empty house.

At this point

I don’t see anything

but the quite branches

all over my head,

shooting up the winter sky.

A bored dog pisses  

as gently as a stupid Christmas carol

that floats in the air lets it piss.

My hair is a mess

and I’m not able to notice

the coming of the winter,

so I sing La Petite Fleur all over the street

while my mother freezes silently

and this whole scene,

under the winter sky,

makes her angry.

She walks faster than me

just because she can’t

look at the trees.

If I was a brave soul

I would take her by the hand:

mamà, you should know

that everyone is a personal,

different kind of idiot

just because we are all

under the same cold, winter sky.