My name is someone

My name is someone,
someone who would like to
shake off
the sadness of gloomy worlds
is the rush of dishonour.

What have I done to
deserve a place among those
who build bridges
flickering between worlds
of whites and blacks,
males
and females,
carnivores
and vegans,
pragmatic accountants
and protectors of the evil bear?
Nothing, only from time to time
descents into the underworld
and invocations to eternal nothingness
to cure specks of soul
scattered by the east wind.

Tomorrow we will make the last lap of the world,
we will understand if the century of
sad passions is at an end
or if we must expect more wars
and more epidemics of bleeding brains
and dawns blighted by rebellious expectations.

The narrative goes on,
the narratives go on,
because nothingness has much room
for the digressions of the defeated.
There is no message of hope,
if we want schoolboys with rifles on their backs
we must turn back
the hands of time