My fathers, the fathers I had
were serious and careful
gray clothes, calm and poised manners
even when having fun.
They talked with their housewives
with that old master attitude
that certain amount of coolness and superiority.
My fathers, poetry enthusiasts
in their old flats
under the pendant glass lamps
behind discrete covers
They talked and discussed
as old moldy Europeans
imprisoned by wisteria and stupidity.
My fathers, the fathers I had
in a sort of weird Italy
could never do without dreaming
the Italian eastern Africa.
My fathers resemble a little
the photos of old riflemen
who showed their dignity in color.
My fathers didn't inspire happiness
they closed the doors of everything
and for lively energetic boys and girls
they didn't have any respect.
They punished and forgave
as old school teachers
impressed by heart
and morality.
But they had some sort of consistence
and they seemed like people
people from a past
going away by itself.