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I know who you are.

You're a retired farmer enjoying a rest and watching the world go by.

You spent your days caring over your vineyards.

Now you can sit back and enjoy the Tuscan landscape.

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But you leave the chair empty.

Many singular chairs in quiet places.

Always empty

At the side of the road.

I can't see you

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..but it is not you. You're not what I know.

You're not what I imagined 

I am guilty of dreaming, preconceiving.

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You are the reality.

You show me false hope, broken dreams and shattered aspirations.

You are an illegal immigrant, a prostitute.

The chair is empty when you are busy.

You too were sold a preconception.

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