1969
I saw my dead grandfather, it was snowy February.
His death disturbed my reading; I was hiding in a story
of a world traveller, when
my father called me to him, screaming out in terror.
In the summer, the Americans went to the moon,
I watched the great triumph on our tiny televisions.
My heart ached for him then
that he wouldn’t see it, nor the sea, never.
From Italy, only Doberdo.
Everything was black, white and grey,
I can’t recall the other colours.
I don’t remember myself, but this much is certain,
that I addressed the men formally,
I didn’t know what it was like to meet and say goodbye
I didn’t know either how a baby was born,
and I hated it when adults
complimented me on how much I’d grown.
Libros Libertad 