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 Asian. It doesn't matter where I am, from the Great Wall of China to Shaolin Temple. From Persepolis to the Sword of the 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 me. I know that if I go further away, I will die missing you.
San Marino, Italy, second house, 1923
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The Fig Tree
PoetryA series of a teenager's mental secretions, living through the distorting lenses of a bell jar. Just random holy yap. Started in: July 12, 2024 Finished in: probably never
