Bella Ciao

I’m glad my grandad died.

He was there when trains were always on time.

Fighting a war against silence. Singing words that sounded like a crime

because – you know – ‘freedom has always been a matter of pride’

His pride looked like a rifle on his shoulder. The attempted matricide

of a country that made opinions a war crime.

Red. Like blood wasted on. White. Mountains of snow and. Green. Eyes on fields of thyme

where men fell – like leaves – in autumn. I thanked him, and he cried.

He didn’t die young and cold,

but certain that the beliefs he fought against would follow him.

But ideals don’t die. No matter how old.

They echo in time. They change name. And just like fairytales, they get retold.

So while I watch history repeating itself, and I can no longer sing your freedom hymn

I’m glad you’re dead, for you won’t have to witness your legacy fold.