the Index
buried in a suitcase I
dignity, white shroud of my soul ...
the key in his pocket a book ever written, and I went
for a self-imposed exile ...
I traveled in the direction of my journey,
thinking of nothing, contemplating nothing,
taking refuge in the wonderful essence of silence
... I suspect nothing ...
I enjoyed the time in depth look at the empty
, stand poised and
feel pain in the back, giving way to the inevitable
thoughts, uncontrollable
the birth of ideas.
I traveled in the direction of my journey,
made of missed opportunities in the property, with disheartening
sought solitude,
desired, feared,
made of memories, assumptions, contradictions ...
isolating themselves in an infinite tolerance, in
perpetual flight.
Sometimes, I have digressed,
the suitcase locked between the palms,
for fear that somehow
as a dark tunnel but-if-I
or who knows what desperate
the ocean-that-I was swallowing my few certainties
torn, wrapped with paper and
bread
swallow my dreams, dreams and eaten, frozen, petrified,
- the only ones in my possession -
- anything that has never been -
I walked to the inner rhythm of the mind,
bent by the weight of the suitcase of anxiety, choking
joy and exaltation.
A quick steps I wandered,
close in case of skin, the repellent
trivial occasions.
Franca
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Amazon
perfect embodiment of a femme fatale?
natural or revolutionary?
her face and sharp piercing
and blond hair, long-legged white
drag its charm in its pace.
Women dominatrix-Amazon-
(maybe you would say "masculine")
pays the price in solitude.
prefers, with his sublime voice and deep,
celebrate the death that occurred,
that show the beauty and enigmatic as the only spectator
has its blind
its devastating killer / detractor.
Just the same man who becomes a witness to such beauty
with the thrill that
will travel back to see them in the inadvertently
powder on the lashes and hair ash.
Franca
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When times are
When the eyes can no longer enjoy
of dust rolling through the branches, if
morissimo together, my love, our souls through
, as real roots, the belly of the earth in search of
shadows that mark the time,
the discovery of silence, wanting to listen, speak more of the many arms
eager to anything that would leave;
my love, if morissimo together,
for our trip, the sea
raise huge splash;
our souls would get,
rage gray-water, thin nostrils
torpor to remember the past, so that their memory becomes
power and strength to ruffle the shore , or to reach
finally
as two grains of sand, the abyss.
My love, if morissimo together
for us, angry clouds cross the sky and wakes
flash as fireworks
our souls would travel like drops of rain, lightning preceded
;
auburn on streets, at sunset ,
would reach a stream that still secret
sings well and sensitive melodies
between the gravel bottom,
still talking on the banks,
breathed through the leaves of the poplar;
if morissimo together, my love,
kind would be the stars, and clear. Our souls will listen
the heart of memory, as
winking sparks
and dress, a veil of special light, the dark fierce
of the night, or may be witnesses to
painful and hasty goodbyes, but then they would know
how to manipulate time.
My love, if morissimo together for us
white flakes form a soft opening,
would fall but our souls, like white feathers on
Snow
without leaving any trace of passage. To delete
nightmares and fears on the nights of the living,
to remove, with a strong chemistry,
the depth of the minds,
larvae transfigured images,
you join our forces with those of the world
and we are always united, my love,
for them that were there.
If I knew that I need to submit only one appointment, my love,
tear a flight by a spire. Not
says Ali.
Lost and desperate, as
who no longer control what happens in free fall
uncover the earth,
through the arches to keep it return.
even poetry, although it is amazing and
accomplice
I swear,
would have no effect, my love.
Franca
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Fragility
Adelda
A mother (not to forget) So many times I sang
dawn
without ever witnessed the birth of the sun.
The clock of the lane marks the minutes, with shots
dried
... in the silence, echoing the sound ...
For me courage, and divert dark thoughts, I look
frenzy that comes after a sleepless night, I know
that vision of indescribable beauty,
but I never lived,
and you, my seventy-three reasons not to sleep ,
with an elongated body in a hospital bed, you toss
, murmuring incomprehensible words:
time travel,
in your past that I do not know.
I look at you with tenderness and apprehension.
's inevitable that my eyes
add other stars at night.
The hours stretched its tentacles beyond measure
and fall into a state of perpetual eve
(I can not see beyond the black padding that surrounds
the entire lane
... the clock breaks the silence with three strokes
so slow as to seem inaccessible to each other ... I wonder if
behind the eyelids,
frenzied flapping,
a horse, the reins loose, chasing the rainbow
or the storm, if
raises his eyes to heaven or rebelling
lies in agony;
will sell your dark to light?
... and I seem to hear a whinny
pierce the vault of heaven ...) or I
dominates the memory of the day after the party
and I wonder if, as before,
the sum of beams of light filter between
from the clouds split open like wounds will form even if
the cone of rays that
mo 'of cornucopia, drooling hybrid colors,
embraced the island, there, in skiing;
and if there will be the light rain that started
from the sea in the mornings of clear days.
pierces the clouds, life answers,
and imperious is the desire of
still suffer the usual words of welcome:
"your arrival brings the nice weather," you told me on the balcony overlooking
filled with geraniums, as I mentioned the
your islands,
a crown of the same gulf
is now ready to be colored
the explosion of another sunrise, and
calls them by name ... "so clear close've never seen "
and told me it was almost an initiation rite to my visits ...
(I have not found any explanation for the occurrence of those wonderful days on time, as if the secret got out a schedule for our meetings)
The dawn is near, and the mist clears its thickness,
a range of subtle colors form the essence, time
vibrant and feathery,
between past and future.
dawn will soon be beautiful, and I
you the gift, but now
is opened up in the dawn sky,
abandoning the secret network of night images
through shimmering visions of truth.
remember
yesterday and the day before yesterday it rained incessantly.
two days there are wrinkles around your lips
(a grating that controls the rhythm of the breath, to keep it from escaping
or maybe you're annoyed by the rain
that somehow nullifies our intimate ceremony) will not cease the
and our wonder will be repeated again, because we want to, because I want
;
from the east and the glow of rebirth
already fills the sky.
Dress explicit calls to create resonance and echoes a new day, and slowly opens
my pain, while
expect to expand the circles in the water,
that a network of spider capture the green foam,
that the sky turns pink
... as it is written, and I've read ...
but the hills hide a show unsuspected, unexpected, and wonderful
exploding orange disc burning
prelude to his plan of life and
... I need this message for you and me.
The day of doubt, request fierce
the unanswered question,
one of the many days when the desire fades, does not recur.
not travel more in the cases unresolved,
life in servitude to the totalitarian and mistress.
for not wanting this,
suffered through clenched teeth,
on the road already traveled gentle souls you leave,
hours of secret images
memories ... I listen to your heavy breathing ... and what I
is not enough to erase the night
because my fickle mood as the horizon of thought
rusty shadows that
expand, advance, to overwhelm
absorb the fluffy whiteness of the moon on the horizon yet.
Life is old and tired.
E, pensive and anxious, control your sleep,
you're not a stranger, the man I love begotten
... and I have no power to give relief to you that I
accettasti
unconditionally ... I just dawn hope to dye my eyes
of who looks at you lovingly.
Franca
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