I sing to the unknown believer


To you I sing in tears,
unknown believer,
that maybe we were family
or maybe we were friends,
that maybe we were lovers
or maybe we never saw each other.

From knocking on your door so much
my knuckles are already bleeding.
I’m running out of voice
screaming amidst so much noise.
If you turn off the TV and come out,
you might hear my moans.

They managed to separate us
with sickly confinements;
obedient to commands
you applauded the cataclysm
and they tied you to fear,
which is the worst of crickets.

You are ordered to wear a muzzle
and you obey with zeal
believing it’s for your own good,
to keep the bugs out,
and I don’t understand that you don’t understand
that talking is forbidden to you.

When I try to talk to you
you always jump with the same thing:
“And the dead, are they a lie?
I have had a guy die.
The contagions, aren’t there any?
And the ucis…, haven’t you seen it?”

The great official discourse
you’ve learned it well,
which is not surprising
because it has been repeated to you,
day after day and incessantly,
all the sold-out media.

If I try to reason with you,
you say that you are already bored
of always talking about this subject;
I have told you and I tell you:
if you have never spoken,
if you repeat yourself possessed!

I have tried to talk to you about the dead,
of indexes, of negatives,
of hospitals, of fish,
of protocols followed,
of the forbidden autopsies
and so many other scams.

I have tried to tell you about worthy doctors
and epidemiologists,
of honest virologists,
of fines and crimes;
of viruses and bacteria,
of microbes and organisms.

I have tried to tell you about laws,
of fines, of crimes,
of human rights,
of the boes I’ve read,
of the state of exception
and the state of alarm, the chosen one.

I have also tried to speak to you
without using your euphemisms,
without using the terminology
of their twisted speech
and that common sense
to send you a warning.

I have tried to make you see
that this is the big blunder,
that they need your faith
and well they have got it;
and that this is not healthy;
and that this is not being alive.

I have tried to get you to listen to me
but you don’t even want to hear it.
You have thrown in the towel,
you think it’s all said and done
and you’ve decided to comply
mute, without saying a peep.

They have managed to make you believe
that you are a serious danger
for your father and mother,
for your grandmother and neighbors,
and that you have to be responsible,
which is the same as submissive.

They have managed to make you believe
that people are your enemy
and that for your own good, you should keep away
from alleged murderers
even if you have to take
a thousand depressed pills.

They have managed to make you believe
that, for the sake of your children,
they have to lock them up in classrooms
-what madness, poor things!
with the windows open
even if they are very cold.

And they have managed to make you believe
that they have to wear a chinstrap
and that they must be separated
from all their little friends
so as not to kill grandpa,
whom they haven’t seen for centuries.

They have managed to make you believe
that your father is being held
in an old people’s prison,
for his sake, they give him asylum
and they don’t let him see you
even on Sundays.

They have managed to make you believe
that, for the circus to end,
they have to prick you with a poison
which -as they themselves say-
will not prevent you from getting sick
or infecting your cousin.

They have managed to make you believe
that you have to follow the path
that they order you from Above
and, by means of little numbers,
they keep you every day
cowed and asleep.

They have succeeded in making you believe
that you have to wait quietly,
that they will tell you
if you can get five of you together
and you can go to eat
to the poshest restaurant.

They have managed to make you believe
that, if they keep you in suspense,
it’s not because they want to, no:
it’s because the positives
are like the lottery
that has to mark your destiny.

They have succeeded in making you believe,
knowing yourself to be morbid,
that it is the irresponsible ones
the guilty and evil ones;
that your life is shit
because of those meanies.

They’ve got you believing
that you must be obsessive,
psychopathic with your own,
practice masochism
and lock yourself in your bubble
until you move on to the niche.

And I can’t understand
that in all this you have believed
because it is common sense,
not foolish or clever,
to realize the ends
macabre and pursued.

And I fail to understand,
suffering what we are suffering,
which is extremely serious,
that you have not jumped up and down
and shouted out loud:
“No more of this silence!

No more of this unreason!
No more sadism!
To the street, and to the street!
No more harmful muzzles!
Life, love and freedom!
Let’s vomit the rotten!”

And in sorrow I ask myself
what will happen to you
the day when you discover
the lie gone mad.
I hope that the end will not be
to end up in the abyss.

The sadness, the impotence,
the bitterness and boredom,
the grief, the atrocious rage
and disgust towards the damned
who do not let us live,
have made me cry out loud.

And I have even thought
-not without a certain shudder
when the memory comes back to me
our dead acquaintances,
that I am glad that they do not suffer
this cruel nonsense.

Exhausted of rhyme,
unknown believer,
I will try with prose
to keep talking your ear off
without mincing my words,
in case I hurt you a little,
but always with affection,
dear stranger.

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