To celebrate the anniversary of who I was, I write by the light of the window,
the rear-view mirror reflects an ancient face, meter by meter.
Forced to look where I pretend not to see,
and so I run, change my name, look for roads where I won't fall again.
I didn't think you would find me on this road of lost dreams,
you send me postcards of shadows, notes from days now gone.
Like half-forgotten dreams knocking softly at my door,
like a pebble in my shoe that still accompanies me with every step.
Memory is the warmth that burns softly in a kiss,
it is the thief who breaks the neck of a rose, a bold gesture and a bold embrace.
The promise tattooed under my sleeve is a secret that cannot be seen,
but when night falls, the voice is the map that guides me and believes in me.
I will see it every time I turn my back, even if I run away.
I keep this madness in a drawer, it weighs like lead and like honey,
it assails me in the empty hours, it follows me in the alleys and stairways.
I would be luckier to wander with a heart that is silent and does not bleed,
but the memory is my sin, a stain that cannot be rubbed away.
I will never wash away the meaning, nor the stains on my hands,
it takes a long way, it takes time, it takes wind to carry them far away.
Every night I cut my heart a little, sew it up and let it go,
a piece dies, another is reborn, learns to walk.
And every dawn is an open account that I pay with a strange song,
with words that taste of salt, wine, bread and this guitar.
I send letters without an address, I fold them like promises,
I hide them between the pages of books, between the folds of my own cracks.
I will write, I swear, even if the world asks me to be silent,
even if the road is long and my name is a shadow that wants to escape.
I walk with the pebble, with the memory that burns and comforts,
with the broken rose in my pocket and the promise that still flies.
Every step is a verse, every breath a rhyme that stretches out,
and my heart, blind and broken, under the collar that still adds itself.
I cannot erase the past with a gesture or a toast,
but I can transform pain into song, into light, into clues.
The madness in the drawer becomes music if I open it slowly,
take it out, make it dance, let it go by the hand.
And when the night weighs heavy and nightmares knock mercilessly,
I light a lamp, write the name and turn it into a city.
Because even if I run, change my name, look for streets of no return,
in the gaze of the compass that holds me, the lighthouse that saves me from the horizon of scorn.
I will see, I know, every time the world asks me to run away,
I will hear it in the breath of the wind, in the sound of the waves on the sea.
And with each passing day, with a broken but sincere voice,
I promise again: I will write, until the last evening.