This is the English version of: https://loscrittorevolante.com/2021/06/22/poesiaporte-chiuse/
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I knock,
we knock.
To these closed doors.
Which most likely,
they will stay that way forever.
I knock,
or rather not, I’m far away,
because I know no one would answer.
But I keep knocking,
so much fear,
that what I loved,
that what was,
never comes back.
That she,
never comes back.
As I try to accept it,
also to open myself to the miraculous eventuality,
to see who I have lost,
I feel a weight inside,
a lump in the throat,
unspeakable pain.
Closed doors.
Finished books,
closed books.
That I know I should leave that way,
but I would like,
I wish there was another way.
And I bang my fists,
against closed doors …
attached to anger,
to hope,
to pain.
The only things I see,
still alive,
still true.
Fuckin ‘closed doors,
open them, a moment.
Almost if it could say,
that you are good only with your legs
and vowels.
Closed doors,
like people’s heads….
But you know,
instead of knocking,
I would really like to break through.
And smash someone else too,
in another sense.
Doors smashed.
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