Train Moscow - St. Petersburg. Northern Lights 2

Someone was playing a violin  in the marble hallway. Light almost diurnal and sweat and heart pounding.

Last steps in this city where I had decided not to run.

Same day of a red stone sunrise.

Red.

It 's already a new day, new world, new city.

It was a sunrise also the one I saw this night. A night it has never been.

Reflected in this small room in movement, where I went to sleep laughing among strangers, with a kiss of wine no more illegible.

As a three, a en, also reflected, to become the beginning of a name.

I was looking for the first lights of a slow day in a mirror that I had mistaken for a window.

Where am I going?

I'm somewhere between the east and the north. Among the plains of an endless land.

I sleep longer, I try to dream without the darkness.

What a strange world.

Long noses of old barking  ladies and dumb dogs for good luck.

Easter eggs and cake shaped women floating on shallow steps.

What a noise in the bowels of the earth, decorated with stones and light and ugly pictures of flowers.

More stairs, people going up and down. No one is talking, no one is stopping.

I've seen them screaming inches away from me, but I did not hear anything.  I would not understand anything.

What a long day.

It begins at the market, among shoals of stringy cheese, smoked like the fish.

I do not smell anything but light scent, nor caviar neither flowers.

Two citizens and a devil who did not want to drink with us.

Yes, us.

She was running behind toasted Uzbeks along a river where words of scorpions that change the world are still blowing.

Who knows what change I thought when I was a kid and did not know she was dancing and living far away.

And studying in a huge castle, and was laughing under the mustaches of scientists, also made of marble.

It was not an illusion, huge as well. Thousands of men and women alienated inside, at the same time convinced that they serve the power.

It could everything. It could the red half of the world till the empire of sun.

It was still the same day.

Atomic.

I do not know where I started, maybe I recognize the morning from your loneliness, your half happiness.

Finally I can touch you with no plastic, in this piece of day that is not over yet, it starts only in a new city.

There is still light.

There is always light.

Golden light on rooftops of god, on the ramparts of the war, on anything that might shine.

On water and toy-churches entertaining men who were terrible.

There is noise in this small europe built on mud. There are voices around every corner. Hidden inside things. I can not listen to them and they make me sleep.

I sleep under low bridges, I can touch them, I can cross them.

I sip Italian grapes.

It should be evening.

What is the eveing? Those light hours governed by the birds, maybe by the serene after a summer storm.

You’ll tell me when the evening comes.

I still feel the heat on the skin, I can feel it coming out of a glass and a star that should be the same as my sun.

I see the light on the hot candles of that stone coloured cake built on a river of blood.

But still do not know that I have not seen all the moments of the northern light.

The world is not only made of bell towers and paintings,  of mountains and sea. Although I remember the blue ice that slides over the sea, I do not know the air of heaven.

I saw waves merging with the sound and a dazzling sunset, but I have not yet lived in every moment the light of the north.

On one side of a bridge which divides the city and its time.

On which side do you want to stay?

You want to wait hidden under the first shadows, not to say to those who love you do not go back to sleep.

What time is it?

Noon or midnight?

A few minutes more.

But the minutes are only slices of hours of which no one gives a fuck.

The sun is still there and the shadows are sinking in the great river.

What a blue.

Can you explain the colors of this sky? Can you explain the pink and silver, explain this fast moon, explain the fire, explain electricity, especially explain these songs?

Finally I heard you singing.

You never said that you knew how to do.

You never told me that you need oxygen to live, that you breathed the nineties with the same lungs that I was beginning to fill with roads.

What was the youth of who has known only a piece of the world until the wall fell?

What were you dreaming?

But you knew of this light much earlier than me. You already knew that you do not dream only by night.

No, it is not yet night.

It will never be.

They're all waiting for the sun to disappear to celebrate only the light.

No more suns will come.

It will always be the same, waiting for ships to pass, only to reappear somewhere, with no rush.

One, two, three .... Passing quickly under a piece of road projected into the sky.

How great it would be to be able to take a run and try to walk on it and see if the incline of the road is enough to get spit in the blue.

Yes, I've taken photos. A lot. I could not stop.

I hope they help me to feel again those songs. that round embrace, big, while still trying to dance and sing. I felt like it too.

I wanted to hear the words of memories. They were yours.

You were laughing.

With that letter on the lips while the shoes sank into the mud and piss.

We did not even want to drink.

We were thirsty for light and went back to look at it again, to focus the eyes to the sky, peering out the window to the streetlights hanging on the road still open, with the flavor of a last sip of vodka and tired legs. We were looking for the last perfect place. There was no need. It was all written down somewhere where no one will read.

I'll never dare to say even to myself that I can not stop playing to life.

Maybe I can catch this Mosca (fly and Moscow in Italian are spelled the same). With one of those strips of glue and honey.

I will he be able to trap her, ask her to stop torturing me and take me on its  little wings somewhere where even the ice will be a mistery no more.