Il Momento

Passing the borders once again. 

Roman rain replaced the dry, cold wind of Berlin. 

Strange voices beside my ears. 

My senses are open. 

What is it like to be in Europe once again?  

“Il Cinese,” I hear it all the time.  

Every word of knowledge is condensed into a symbol, 

a pronoun, an utmost simplification of the Asian face. 

Word. 

The most superior invention of the human race.  

“Sono Taiwanese.”

Repeated words dissolved in the vast Italian language. 

Sono tornata a casa. 

It is late again.

Il fumo. 

Moonlight contours half of his face under the starry sky. 

One of his legs is rested on the porch. 

A contrapposto.  

He ciao-ed my neighbors. 

I sat on the stairs, moonlight caresses his gentleness. 

Stillness. Come un quadro.

“What are you thinking?” 

The brown met the blue. 

“My time used to run in its full speed. 

It is just part of my work.”

Inala il fumo.

“It seems that my time has stopped when I am here.”

“One day, I have to decide which is the dream.”

Lo soffia via.

“And is this what you want?”
​
Silence.

“Now?”

Warm light. 

Breath.

sì.

My Taiwanese flag is the witness.