Poets are a critical conscience and a revolutionary push of society: Domenico Brancale and his Pasqualina and “Scannaciucce” met him, in the wonderful performance of April 18 last, which excited us. Today for MaTerre he tries to answer the oldest of the questions: “Who am I?” and with his contribution he helps us to take a small step forward in our research on identity.
I’ve always had the answer. It was from this answer that I looked for the question among the infinite questions so that one day the answer and the question could match, they could solve my existence. The question, only the question is destiny.
“Knowing how to be in the mystery of the encounter” is the reason for our existence. To what extent are we able to do this? To what extent are we able to make the stranger our own?
We are nothing but others. And this dependence erases the features of what we called being oneself. The mirror lies. Portraits dig. The excrescence of silence grows on every face.
There are masks that grow on faces and faces that grow on masks. There is absence.
Identity is the invention of loneliness. Identity is an echo. It devours the soul.
To come out of solitude. To come out of the limbs, out of the stone. Going out inside. In the geometry of the looks is present the sense of struggle. We challenge our uselessness. We hide the crumb in our pockets in the hope of returning. The body no longer believes in anything. The secret is lost. Abandonments are repeated within the voracity of words. Regrets come back late at night. Let’s pull up the sheets. We deepen the silence.
When I am me. I am you. When the “we” appears, who disappears? We who remain silent is the body.
For years and years I have sought in man reconciliation with nature. Torso like trunks. Arms like branches. Feelings like leaves. Past as roots. Now I miss that nature. Some of my traits have completely disappeared. No more clay flows from my hands. I chase the garrito of swifts. I save history my fall. How close the beginning is.
Seeking innocence. Innocence means being cruel. Only the innocent overcome pain.
I didn’t talk about all these things before because I thought there was an afterlife. An afterlife in which my inhuman part gave way to the true mute nature of things. The possibility of an instant.
To desist is to contemplate one’s own transgression.
Now that we have reached the furthest distance. Even the distance within is filled.
To say goodbye is to love again. To say it to oneself. To say goodbye is to profane the past. Saying goodbye is chewing silence. To make one’s way into the void. Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around in the face. Saying goodbye is turning off the light of the name. Saying goodbye is opening the body wide into the night. Saying goodbye in the flame is a moth. Saying goodbye in the ashes is a breath. To say goodbye is to erase the steps on earth. The earth on the skulls.
“You have a heart to hang, like a ripe fruit, on the branches of all the trees. Now you know. But this is not enough. You are the heart that beats outside of me. Follow destiny. Turn. Turn it around. Let him follow you. The branches are the others. The branches of all those trees are us. The broken ones. Give us your name.
Night is a hand on the eyes. You’ve come to the end.
When you believe that you have come to the end, prepare yourself because you are about to begin.
Two thousand years from now, when only the stones can speak.