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A week of heavy tranquility,
I spent most of it sleeping
I thought of Shit Valley.
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.