Black is the night, black the asphalt
of this seasonal return
to where it all began.
In the trunk, the bare essentials
that are of no use
where you were born.
The olive trees greet you at the roadside,
the clothes you wore in former days,
the toys of childhood,
the voices of the neighborhood,
and, if you are lucky, a mother,
perhaps a father too.
Mine are in the gardens of the graveyard,
yet I carry them within me
along life’s journey.
This motorway that ends beside the sea
I have travelled for the last thirty years,
twice a year, and sometimes more,
the car empty on the journey south,
filled with love and food supplies
when the holidays are over.
You move through memories by inertia;
the worst return, and so do all the best,
but when my feet touch ground in Salento,
a pink dawn blossoms in my chest.