Alessio Zanelli: ‘The Loss’

The Loss
After Sandro Penna

The last thoughts—sunk in the pillow, hardly
turning into dreams—used to make it deep
into the night. I loved to run over the day
just passed, before moving to fancies about
the next. Always, sleep arrived too soon. The
magical aura of long summer watches—in
through the window—still is what keeps
me alive today. The child I was. But what a
child! Much of it I’ve brought with me so very
far away—tenacious even though unwitting.
But not everything. Time makes impetus
taper down, differences fade, both black and
white just look like gray. I no longer linger over
contemplating the evening—as if it were the
most momentous moment, the one I liked
to await after each awakening. To say it with
an honest poet’s words—my old innocence is lost.

Alessio Zanelli