There is always a part of me that belongs to Italy. The well-dressed booted Italy. With cobbled streets and democratic and fascist decency. But I am still an Asian. A damn star-burnt, jinxed Asian.
It doesn't matter where I am, from the Great Wall of China to Shaolin Temple. From Persepolis to the Sword of Arabs. I'm still Asian, it doesn't matter where; Pakistan, Japan, Korea or Iran. I'm always here, with bits of tomorrow, with olive oil Italians.
So, with reminders of you, my thousands-year-old city, this time, I will leave the Asians behind.
I know that if I go further away, I will die missing you.
San Marino, Italy, second house, 1923
YOU ARE READING
The Fig Tree
PoetryA series of a teenager's mental secretions, living through the distorting lenses of a bell jar. Inspired by Sylvia Plath.
