lunedì 1 luglio 2013

the making of a woman


So from the insolence
of your magnificent spring
enlightened by those
apparently eternal rays of sun,
you really  think you can tell me
about  things I have  already lived
or about places where I have  already been
or streets I have  already covered
with the same sense of invincible
omnipotence you are showing me ?
You don’t surprise me,
maybe you saddened me a little
because I allowed you for a moment
the regret of a lost occasion to stay silent.
I won’t tell you the usual,
slightly  envious nasty thing,
that you will hear,
again and again,
during your life,
year after year,
while, already too late,
you will try to swim
against the stream,
arduously, hopelessly
like a stubborn stupid salmon.
That the beauty is ephemeral.
This truth you already know.
Every day you can see it yourself .
You don’t need me telling you this again.
I will tell you another thing  instead,
that one day you will understand,
it won’t be enough anymore, 
and  you will want something else,
much more than that,
something that is not up for sale.
Because for the man
you will choose to support
all his frailties on your shoulder,
not strong enough  for that,
the one you will choose
to protect from the world
soothing its screams with your hands,
sustaining his mind
only with the pureness of your heart,
dissolving his insecurities
with a smile and your touch
dispersing his doubts 
and his  fears with a caress,
holding his hand when he trembles, 
but conceding him the illusion
to be himself with his apparent strength 
to protect you from
the ambushes of life,
keeping you safe.
Then for him, and only for him, 
you will want to become a woman.