[Like a thing.] Poem by Antonio Santori

Like a thing.
Like the things
of the world that just stay
things. Unknown and
lonely things. Silent.
You had always known
that I was not there
yet in the pain
of the things, of the things
of the world that just stay
things. I wasn't there,
because pain
is in the page full
of things, unknown
lonely things. Silent.
You had always known
that I was the name
of the things, in the infinite
page huddled up
in itself, like a thing.
You had always known
that I was there, life
huddled up in itself,
the painful one […]

Translated by Tania Calcinaro