The Replicant’s Lament
When they came to the village
we young men hid.
For fifteen years now
we had been at war
and some of us
were looking for a way out.
“Go to the Pakistani border
because Iran’s not safe.
Sneak inside a truck and maybe
you’ll make it through”.
Almost there, but the last
fifty feet, a road block:
laughing soldiers
peered inside and forced us out.
No, they wouldn’t take our
miserable bribes
One looked at me and mocked me
“Ehi! Good looking,
I think I know someone
who has a job for you!”
And my fate was sealed.
Yes, I was taken out of the country
and they groomed and trained
my shepherd ways out of my body.
Fancy barracks
New languages
Orders and high life
Like a Sultan I was to behave.
“Straighten your back!
Put fire in your eyes!
Your lip! Make it stiff
with pride and disdain!
Remember, you are not
some shepherd boy
from the village!
You are the future Caliph
himself!
Put some fierceness
in your eye, you stupid sheep!”
And day after day
for years
until I forgot my nature
but didn’t really know
my mission.
My beard grew gray
my cheek caved in
as my bites were counted
No wife, no family for me
I was just the shadow, spare parts.
My mother long ago mourned my death
like that of the neighbor boy
crushed in the underside of a truck in Mestre
with his poems hidden on his body
protecting his soul.
My father figured I hadn’t
even crossed the mountains
I was such a klutz
with my long skinny body
uncoordinated like a dancer
after an opium fest.
And so the years passed
and I thought “What a waste
of my life and their money
When will death release me?
When suddenly the Captain
called me in to a have a little talk
“In appreciation for your long
years of service
your loyalty
and good nature
we have decided
to reward you
with a palace
and a new life.
No, you won’t be able
to leave the compound
And, yes, we’ll get you
a woman, maybe three
two older and a young one,
your favorite
Hell, we’ll even throw in
some kids,
a real family life.
We believe in family values,
Don’t we all?
And you know, funny thing is
the young one
is even happy, we got her away from her village
and two brothers like hawks
that wouldn’t leave her side
we had to shoot them dead
But you know the rules
Your life is inside
You’ll have your slice of happiness
not too far from
your old place of birth.
We’ve fed you
we’ve housed you
you have known
no want
for all these years
Now one last effort
maybe in a while
you’ll be free.
So like the rich man I never met
but whose shadow I was to be
I had 500 dollars sewn inside my clothes
phone numbers in my pockets
and could even play
on a computer
though no internet
was allowed.
Days turned into weeks
weeks into months
months into years
in my barbed wire palace
and even got to joke
with the guards
they too from a village
but from the Pakistan side.
And then one night
suddenly
a bullet through my brain.
It turned out the one they had on ice
in the cryogenics facility in Emeryville
when they put a bullet
through his dead head
his brain splattered in
an unnatural way
So it was no good for the pictures
and even worse for the funeral video
But me, I was fresh and natural
and splattered just right
for the whole world to see.
Too bad they had to dump me fast
with weights on my legs
like the prey of a Mafia hit man
hoping no whale would come by
and create a biblical incident.
I’m happy my mother still believes
I died embraced by our mountains
with a pine tree watching over
my lanky boy body
a hawk circling over my unmarred head
playing with my soul
Invisible to all.
Pina Piccolo, 4 May, 2011
L’ho intitolata “Il lamento del replicante” perché la scrivo dal punto di vista del poveraccio che probabilmente ha interpretato il ruolo di bin Laden nell’ultimo B-movie americano. Io me lo immagino come un ex-pastore afghano, fuggito dal villaggio circa 20 anni fa che, mentre cerca di arrivare in Pakistan nascosto in un camion viene fermato da dei soldati. Uno lo guarda e ride e dice “Bel giovanotto, penso di conoscere una persona che ha un lavoro per te”, e da allora il suo destino è deciso. Viene portato in un altro paese, lo addestrano, a forza di male parole gli fanno perdere la sua natura di pastorello, deve diventare, uno superbo, sicuro di sé, il futuro Califfo. Il poveraccio perde la sua natura, ma non sa la sua missione. I genitori lo piangono per morto, come l’altro ragazzino, figlio dei vicini, schiacciato sotto un camion a Mestre, con addosso le sue poesie. Il padre pensa che non sia stato nemmeno capace di superare le montagne, goffo com’e con i suoi arti lunghi e sgraziati, come un ballerino fatto di oppio. Dopo molti anni, viene convocato dal Capitano che gli annuncia, “Vista la tua fedeltà, il tuo buon carattere abbiamo deciso di offrirti un palazzo. Tu ci starai dentro, non potrai mai uscire, ma ti provvederemo 3 mogli, una delle quali giovane, diversi figli, perché crediamo nella famiglia. La moglie più giovane era pure contenta di lasciare il villaggio, ma abbiamo dovuto uccidere i due fratelli che come falchi non la lasciavano. Lì nel palazzo circondato da filo spinato, l’ex pastore fa una vita tranquilla, fa i giochini al computer pure se non ha Internet, perfino chiacchiera con le guardie, anche loro ex pastori, ma di un villaggio pachistano. Come a un riccone, all’ex pastore hanno cucito 500 dollari negli abiti e 2 numeri di telefono. Poi, improvvisamente una notte, gli sparano un colpo al cervello. Scopre che all’altro, quello conservato nel ghiaccio, nel laboratorio di criogenia di Emeryville (esiste veramente, non me lo sono inventato), quando gli hanno sparato un colpo alla testa, il cervello si era spappolato in maniera anormale e non andava bene per le foto e il video dei funerali, quindi hanno deciso di sparare il colpo a lui perché veniva meglio nelle riprese, e poi gli hanno legato dei pesi ai piedi e buttato in mare, sperando che da lì non passasse una balena a creare un incidente biblico. La poesia si conclude con le considerazioni dell’ex pastore che dice di essere contento che sua madre lo crede morto da ragazzo e sepolto sotto un pino, con i falchi che giocano con la sua anima, invisibile a tutti.