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.
But you leave the chair empty.
Many singular chairs in quiet places.
At the side of the road.
I can't see you
..but it is not you. You're not what I know.
You're not what I imagined
I am guilty of dreaming, preconceiving.
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.