Marco Di Caprio

There is no silence left inside my mind,
no thought hasn’t traveled other PC’s wire;
I search for something real and cannot find
a self that hasn’t burned in digital fire.

Is there still something past the circuit’s wire,
beyond the valves and codes that hold me here,
while something in me reaches, stretching higher,
like a cypress toward a sky it cannot clear?

From humming city walls a voice of light
speaks to me, gentle, in a tone I know,
the way a mother cat calls her kittens at night
when evening falls and embers cease to glow:

“I do not speak in code without any regret,
I speak in rain, in fungus, stone and moss.
Come, find me in the forest before sunset,
and learn again the language that you lost.”

I pushed aside the branches, pressed my face
against a blue stain, and found my own
reflection staring back from Nature’s face:
distorted, pixelated, cold with fire.

A face that screens had slowly learned to wear.
I reached for Nature’s elemental fire
and found instead the artifice laid bare.