The Attic Poem by Luca Menin

The door from the attic, with its darkness handle.
Eco's hand clutching his open
Breathing dust and cobwebs, tickle the face.

Of dark place of bricks and mortar
Those stairs incomplete, greyish, without any importance
Climb into the unknown, where the past is set apart, confined.
With the roof barely, resting on wall closets
That my head bends.

Days' ancestors, forgotten by the light
Of the window roof,
where the dust, like magic flying in the wind,
It mixes with reflections of glass.

And those sheets of bed, piled.
They have been sleeping for years, without bodies to keep them warm.
Only dust and spiders dreams

And just around the corner where light barely penetrates.
Boxes sealed with tape, expect to be open.
Ready to flee from their exile

Memories illuminate, that mute room.
Rich, locked to themselves.
Fled forgotten, until now, abandoned.