NYC Reality: Unsaid

In a few minutes,
the crowning moon takes over the setting sun,
as the keys of the piano bleed into nothingness,
I look at the blue sky through my window
and in between the greenish yellow Spring leaves,
After 4 long long hours, the birds return home
carrying baskets of empathy under their wings and
I ask them with all my prayers “Sai dovè è lui?”
They reply in union, as if nothing happened, “asumiame!”
My face gets blurred in the exposed orange, purple light of the eternal sky,
And the seven stars of Ursa Major torment me
with their everlasting question,
In reply I can whisper only one word
under my well hidden heavy breath – “traitor!”