Twenty-three years of writing
One good thing of the burglary
Of my parents’ house
Was finding the books of my childhood
Which somehow I had managed
To leave behind.
Two hours
I lost myself
In the pages - now yellow-
Of "From the Earth to the Moon" by Verne;
And then I caught myself smiling
Over the adventures of "Ciondolino", by Vamba.
But the real surprise
Was when I recognized
Amongst the heaps of books
Scattered on the floor,
That green book
That I had read at least five times
In a row.
To the point that
I had to strengthen the (costa)
With tape, so that
It wouldn’t fall off.
THE JOURNAL OF GIAN BURRASCA!
Inside, a dedication
By my grandmother
For my nineth birthday:
"I hope you won’t imitate
Gian Burrasca’s nasty tricks".
An advice I followed…
I made up my own >:7)
I think this book
Is one of the best presents
I was ever gifted with.
It was then
That I started writing
My own journal,
And
Twentythree years after,
I’ve still got ink.
Sure, this one
Is a little different
From my first "Zibaldino"
(A tribute to a more famous Zibaldone);
An old squared notebook
From the times of the Dux
That my grandmother gave me,
With a black hardcover
And the sheets painted in red
At the sides…
Or maybe not.
At the end of the book
A note by small me
(I habit I had at the time
Of writing down a thought
That the book had inspired):
"How does one understand why
What can’t be done
Must not be done,
If one does not do it first?”
I still haven’t got an answer.