A Nice Part of the World

It’s a nice part of the world, they say,
where the green and brown hills undulate for centuries
like the back of a tamed sea-goddess,
asleep, enchanted, fearful no more,
not fulfilling promises of lust years ago made,
and pheasants cross the narrow roads, unaware;
where nature lost its rudeness
and became soft, sensible and polite
as we should, gently chatting by the fireplaces,
tinkling glasses, waiting for the blue spring
to spread, like the breeze or the wings of birds,
becoming another layer of colour that you can taste.

It’s a nice part of the world, people say,
where you can leave your door and car open
that no one will come and take,
even if you want someone to,
to tear your from the inside with fire and pain,
where the detached politeness of people
mirrors the landscape without edges
and you gaze, contemplate, lost,
the wandering, dreaming eyes free at last
from the erring thoughts and restlessness
from days gone, erased, forgotten.

It’s a nice part of the world, you hear again,
but they won’t say it by other words.
Suppressed are expressions of greatness and awe,
where emotions and strong sensations go and hide
and express themselves behind closed cosy doors
where wolves, devoid of fangs, silently threaten,
with the gentleness of smiles learnt from habit,
their prey standing unaware by the window,
offering herself to that cruelty
that survived centuries of measure
and nice thatched houses by the side of the road.
It’s a nice part of the world, you say.