I have been to the market of dreams...

       by Alessandra Novelli

I have been to the market of dreams
and I saw little fat man play dice
    with the lives of others
I saw them make bets greedily, without ever stopping
and for every soul won, hundred others would fall in a hole.

I have been to the market of dreams
and I saw the sellers of images and words
they called them artists, poets and writers
they were raping the young minds
    and traded with the old ones
and for every image sold
another little piece of heart would turn to dog food.

I have been to the market of dreams, and there were also women
enormous women with fat hips and swollen breasts
I saw them walk along the streets to sell their bodies
and offer their milk to whoever, from time immemorial,
       was thirsty.

I have been to the market of dreams
and I saw the dealers in “nostalgia”
they were selling bits of sky in a box
     and tears of plastic
and the newest, excellent strawberry glue
 for anyone with a broken heart.

I have been to the market of dreams
and I saw the blind lovers grope through the crowd
    and gasp for breath in the darkness
I saw them touch with anger those anonymous bodies
in search of the lips of a lost love.

I have been to the market of dreams
and, of course, they were also there, “the merchants of life
       and death”
the biggest business at the market
they restored the “capacity” to create, to love and
      to be happy
  to anyone who had lost it, or never had
it was simple: in exchange for some money and
     your life’s burdens
you could choose among yellow, red, green, and blue pills.

At the Market of Dreams
where this whole humanity is bought, sold, and becomes
         exchanged merchandise
only the little thieves are free creatures

I saw them too, they were slipping through the legs of the
  merchants and stole kisses from young women
they had clean eyes and fast hands
  the law for them was a joke
and the market, a playground
I saw them, these nimble, light souls
playing ball with their own mind during the sunny morning.

The Market of Dreams, I was there when I saw you arrive,
woman of depth and silent like the moon,
you had in your hands a little object which you dropped
     on the ground
maybe a bomb, maybe a heart never exploded, maybe the sum of
all that has never been said and done
    and that was waiting in the silence
I don’t know, but after that simple gesture
there was an explosion of fire and millions of fragments of
love were thrust like little chips of diamond into the hearts
     and into the minds
of the people of the market.  Someone died, someone fled in
madness, someone else was born to a new life.

Only the little thieves smiled.