mamma

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gLkONVcfvNg

I look at a picture of my mother:
she was happy, she was probably three years old, 
she squeezed a doll -
the most coveted gift - on her chest. 
It was her birthday party, 
a faded black and white. 
I look at my mother at that time and I see again 
my own smile. 

And I think of how many times 
I felt her distant. 
And I think of how many times... 

I would have wanted to tell her about me, 
at least ask her the reason 
of those long and hostile moments of silence 
and of carelessness. 
Every time again I proved to be inflexible, 
inaccessible and proud,
intimately fierce, 
fearing a silly rivalry. 

I look at a picture of my mother: 
she was happy, she was probably twenty, 
her hair gathered in a silk scarf 
and a lost expression. 
Clear snapshot of the Sixties 
in a shiny Catania. 
I observe it carefully and find 
my own expression.

And I think of how many times 
I felt her distant. 
And I think of how many times... 

I would have wanted to tell her about me, 
at least ask her the reason 
of those long and hostile moments of silence 
and of arbitrary indolence. 
Every time again I proved to be inflexible, 
inaccessible and proud,
intimately fierce,   
fearing an innate rivalry. 

I would have wanted to tell her about me, 
at least ask her the reason ... ... 
I would have wanted to tell her about me 
at least ask her the reason ... ...