"Mercy"
It was you in the arms of the mother. You, transformed into marble, petrified in the silence of a museum hall. It always happens at closing time when visitors rush towards the exit, afraid of being locked inside. Not me, I fear nothing, because the custodian knows my habits and knows where to find me. He escorts strangers to the door and then comes to call me. He's sure about it; he knows he'll find me motionless in front of the Pietà statue. We exchange smiles. In fact, I'm the first to smile at him to inhibit his desire to know why, for a month now, I've been staring at the unmatched sweetness of a Pietà. Always at the same time, when the museum closes, when I can peacefully converse with the mother and the son embraced in the final hug.
