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A week of heavy tranquility, I spent most of it sleeping and then I thought of Shit Valley. It exists. It bears many silences; One reserved down the hill When I drive my truck upwards. Into the muddy zone, another is Filtered by the selling of "kesba" and wheat bags – top quality pigeon food, whereas the next vestibule stores empty gas cylinders to remind you of back pains and dry winters, A third is almost a hiss I confront and embrace where I found a perfect spot to throw away my loaded truck, Loaded with my great grandmother's furniture; I'd spent the other night with her. She'd spoken to me – when I was supposedly asleep – of old domestic quarrels when the Italians used to be our masters, "Days of the Italians", they call them. My male ancestors looked like German philosophers. They'd all died before I was born, They might've missed the formulation of the valley, Their time was one of no industrial zones, No photogenic settlements around it – corrugated iron never looked better, A time I wouldn't especially adore. We never visit the dead in our little cemetery, but by the time I'm thirty, I'll have been visited by myself, where a short history finally lies unnoticed.