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THE SLAVES, THE METAL, THE ASH

THIS COLLECTION OF POETIC PROSES IS ESSENTIALLY A DIARY, A DETACHED GLANCE BUT NOT ABSENT FROM THE DISPERSION OF THE IDEAS AND THE MORAL VALUES THAT CHARACTERISE SOME APPEARANCES OF LIVING DAILY.

I see
some ships that leave and never
reach their destination.
The waves are crashing,
the winds are blowing hard
and the ships still forget the necessary anchor
stopping at a bright point
whose origin is unknown
and the infinite seems close.

I see
lights that turn on and off
over a great forest.
All the animals seemed alive
and I see flocks of birds
flying towards the sun
and a little boy with his tight hand
towards the freedom
that he has left behind.
The birds will find the sun
the little boy instead
will lose himself in the forest,
already I'm hearing
his tender weeping,
sad,
desperate,
cold,

There will come a moment in which
you will turn to yourself saying:
" It is enough!"
And your head will fold itself defeated
seeing in its useless lifetime
the central point of truth.
He will see it in buried boyhood,
or in the consumed youth
or in the bottom
of two luminous weeping eyes.
A lightning of faith
has crossed your path.
Why didn't you seize it?
Then
many rocks,
cold stones,
and the tiredness,
tremendous tiredness,
will make your head
heavy with blame!

This river flows
as melted platinum:
it has fear's image!
We don't notice
so profoundly dipped
metal's absolute silence that drags us in a whirl:
it is the image of a lack of understanding.

The blows of grey metal
have hit your face.
We have laughed at you!
What was your virginity
so calm and peaceful
as the peace of a cypress worth?
He leisurely abandons you too,
touching creature,
sweet cleaner of memories,
spike of corn,
eternity
that is already dead.

WHEEL

The military gait
of a tired and absent
wheel is calm.
It seems that it is lost in town
but on the church steps
it finds a priest
unpleasant,
small,
black,
and it rolls forward
rasping
creaking
on the smooth asphalt.

THE DAY AND THE NIGHT

It is always the same
both in the day and night.
There is the cock that sings
and the star that comes back
with its dreams for you
farmer of the world
wherever you are.
With his hands sunk in his pockets
a little boy is whistling
while his girlfriend
waits for him at the window,
but another boy
has past earlier
and for her
it has been the same.
In the day,
in the night,
the tired work,
the lazy rest,
and there is a cock
that  always sings
while we spend our time
hoping in the coming stars
but it is a new night
and around it is all dark
while a little boy
is still whistling
disappointed
with one straw's wire in his mouth
and one tear
that the sun has dried on his face
and after ...the night!
But the little boy is tired
and vomits his hate and pain
to the usual cock's singing.
For he leaves this world
going to seek gold
but the color of metal
doesn't change his life
and he will still whistle
disappointed
while the window of his love
will close again
for love’ sin.

It comes without time
the will to extinguish
with an icy blow
the last light
in twilight already defeated.
Whirling and alert
it turns a play of images
a joke of colors
on the forced and tired
absence of silence
as earthly heaven.
Space and time
separate themselves
and death
strews the new serene stillness
by a metallic gloominess:
it is the last outrage
and the first obedient recall.

There wasn't anything sadder
that evening when all
was fluttering in that space
where our crying dresses
spread misery and pain.
It was the night of agony
that wrings itself
between the branches
shaking the leaves.
And the piteous leaves fell
covering our bodies
ready  for the sacrifice.
There wasn't any shade
as the darkness mantled
those clods of damp earth.
It was the night of the abandon
and nothing was sadder
than those souls
that had left their body
to the dizzy possession of blindness.

The light that leaned
its hands on this damp cliff
is wet with blood
but its reflections go even farther.
He is the lover of the cliff
that has learned his mortal song
teaching us to live.

One Arlecchino abandoned.
A cutting breath.
The dizziness of the truth
transfigured
by an Arlecchino mask
hardly warned by a tear of a baby.

A FABLE

Stop to rest and stand up!
Here, there is a foreigner
coming from afar.
He says that you have to learn to work
if you want to live.
He says that you should love your woman
as you have chosen her
from the many that you had.
He also says that it's time
you decide to curse
if you don't want to pray.
It is useless, he says,
you rest in your bed
if you haven't merited it.
Maybe,  the foreigner affirms,
someone might come
whipping your back
and you will fall from your bed
by his power
sleeping on the ground
for a long time.
But the man didn't answer.
He continued to sleep,
to eat,
to smoke.
So the foreigner came
and whipped his back,
after
he pulled him out
of the bed
by his power
and went away.
It happened so
the man was obliged to sleep
on the ground
but he began to work,
loved his woman,
cursed when it was necessary,
also prayed,
got his bed,
and was happy.

A man has played his own skin
to the game of dice.
He said what he had to say
and then he left
He didn't wait
or better
he didn't want to wait any longer
and he abandoned himself .
We have judged him.
We have killed him.
His death is our humbleness.
His death is our pain.
His death is our death.
Respect
those who bet their skin
playing the game of dice!

Do return composing
your melodies
yellow canary
like the jealousy that chains the slaves.
Do return singing
your modest passion
among the threads of iron
a sunbeam will shine
and the slaves will enjoy
a moment of freedom.

You'll go,
you'll go
I know
that you'll go
because all go far everyday.
They'll rest
over a soft bed
where they'll be betrayed.
After they'll return.
Even you'll return,
you'll do it!

Who is he that knows the eyes
of a man sick by the world
in which he lives,
in which he dreams,
in which he thinks?
Who is able to sculpture
with strength
without inflicting pain
to the heart of a lost man?
A good word is worth a life.
A gift is worth a love.
And who doesn't talk
who doesn't give
isn't worth
a tear cried by a lost man!

The room with its off key colors
fills all the empty angles
where the lazy eyes
lean to find a reason for living
A useless memory
returns back to your mind,
then you turn your head to the window
discovering the sun that is lighting
the day that you have lost.
The dumb watch
set the time forward
going on
for the slow agony.

She is a people's woman
that doesn't know where she is going.
She is coming
from the black town of her nightmares.
She is going  never coming back
to remain where the body
will invent for her
one moment a sensation of happiness
in an act of total suspension.
She is a people's woman
and says welcome to all.
She turns to the right, she turns to the left
and says welcome
but no one answers her welcome.
Which strange destiny has she chosen
saying welcome
under the umbrella of the human indifference.
She is a people's woman
that goes and never returns
while she follows all the dreams
that are coming towards
the endless seasides of her unreality.
The hour is her suffering,
the time her drama.
Her life is made
with the hour that passes
in the time that she lives.
She is a people's woman
that hasn't her town anymore
that hasn't her prayers anymore
that doesn't know when she will die
that doesn't know
why
she is still walking.

In the air
something right
had stopped itself
for a while.
Is this  maybe the morning of flowers?
Something that got buried
and didn't surface anymore?
Now everything is here,
steady and perfect like a snapshot.
Sitting at The Spanish Steps
a poet is singing under the shelling.
It was the morning of flowers
and someone gathered a smile.
Unavoidably after,
everything went to sleep and
the day stayed the same
as it has always been.

Here you can see
a distorted image
softly hidden in your memory.
Close to your lamp
the moment of silence
appears suddenly.
It is the exact hour
as you fold your wings
like a bird in the night,
while in the air
an ancient prayer returns.

Four chairs,
and a man that is searching
for his chair and table.
One glass of liqueur is still waiting
on a table chosen by chance
and it waits to be drunk.
Anyhow, a lone throat is burnt by alcohol
but it isn't satisfied.
Two coins are on the table,
but one of them is always alone,
and the man gathers his scarf
fallen on the ground
while March is playing with the wind.

I let this cursed washbasin
continue to drip
even if it doesn't let me get my sleep.
But I will try
among these hot blankets of my bed
to dream the drought
when each drop will be deposited
and later drunk
at the right time
and at the right place
without wasting anything!

Two lighted eyes
in the night
against two headlights off
of a parked machine.
A crash!
Then a scrap
of iron and blood.
After, the crowd pointed
to a man that didn't know..
didn't want...
that understood only
others thoughts, others gestures.

-"Murder"-

And they took out his eyes.
After,  they left him there,
dying in a pool of blood and benzene.
One car had been destroyed
and its metallic smell
spread in the air
Sad melancholy filled a funeral procession.
Anything,
nothing,
no one,
remained near  a modest scrap
of bones and blood.

FREEDOM

Dreaming to be a bird
and flying among the colors of the sky
saying hi to an eagle
without it getting surprised.

And everything will be like before
my girl
that wish for your night of love.
And everything will be like before
my young absent minded boy
that will never give her
the night of love
she is longing for.
And everything will be like before
also for the night of love
that will be promised and forgotten.
And it will go away
in wounded hearts,
leaving traces of blood,
sowing our life with sadness and melancholy,
covering it with a thick veil
cold as the silence!

BETRAYED MAN

And he didn't notice anything.
He still believed to see the torch shining.
instead, it was the strange,
ineffable joke of lights
in your hands
like a star dead from much time,
it gave off light,
without life!

They say that the evening
descends also where the hearts
don't beat anymore,
where the sick skin leaves each day
the pouring of blood.
They say that the evening
lets even the hearts beat
that don't know the bad road
of their path
as the coagulated blood
appeases the wounds.
They say that no one in the evening
reflects on the following day
when everything has disappeared,
forgotten
and we come back
fighting our crazy adventure.

Come, listen
to the story of a man
that has loved the sun and the night.
Freedom and love.
The love for the freedom of the earth.
-A blind man shouted under the rain,
between dust and mud,
among happy children,
between snakes of woods.
-Come, listen
to the story of a man
that has been killed more times
by fire's faces,
that always fled
on burnt bridges,
barracks of iron,
among the blood!
People listened,
throwing a little coin,
walking in silence,
fleeing, shouting.
-I don't want the money, don't give me any bread,
I'm dead from so long
but my voice is not tired of talking.
Can you hear something?
Can you even listen
to the sound of the trumpet
that is singing to the victory?
The victory that has been lost
still one more time
among hearts of stone,
among worms of meadows,
among masses of sick seeds in a field.
The people listened
submerged by the lead,
wounded in the flanks
by the sluggishness of time.
- Don't go far,
you can never flee!
You always are tied
with your hands in a sack
and you have to die,
to die many times.
Get my life,
the life of a  blind man,
it is easy, men, but it costs a lot!
The wind listened,
the people fled,
taking the regret,
the remorse of frost of the cold people
with their hands in a sack ,
by now without smiles,
without words,
to be able to tell a story of a man
that dies each day
among snakes of woods,
among worms of meadows!

Incoherence is the destructive sore
and the happy fold of man.
The conviction of a thought
and after the conviction of another.
The man changes place and direction like an eel.
It is a surprise discovering themselves different,
in the end,
it is the unique variant of life silently monotonous.

That which you consider momentous
is always so far from us
or too close
setting life out of focus.
And the hands always turn around
to what you consider momentous
letting each drop of hope
fall softly.

The mind totters,
it loses itself.
It is answering an old love wishing it to come back.
The heart doesn't know
the street without street lamps.
The hour is ending the time of the usual drama.
For how much time?
For how much time?
After.. a new second
and another hour starts.

Glum theater.
Nightly theater.
Last spectacle of a deep night
without the moon.
Where is it coming from
the sadness that grips the slaves?
What have you done about your sick personages?
From the theater a voice is shouting:
 - Where are my seats?-
Quick
alert
silent
a red scarlet curtain
closes the scene.
It is the end of the last act
without seats
without personages
and at last the theater,
with its head bent down
cries embracing like guilt all its solitude!

Living on this earth.
After,
also hell will be a peaceful place!

That which you don't consider momentous,
that which you judge irreverent
gets, perhaps, the real appearance of life.
Sometimes
it is showing a nude butt
that makes the road rid
of more eternal values
that not a gesture or a thought
stifled
among  the thorns of the moral!

DISTRACTION

The absent-minded bird
often finds itself in the mud
as it was deluding itself
living in the air
always
with its opened wings
towards the infinite.

A thousand crosses on a battle field.
A thousand crosses alike
and there are a few of intelligible
for the profane that have come onto your field.
Each day a cross adds itself to the others
and the sun doesn't penetrate anymore
among that entanglement of miseries,
and they are........ a thousand and one.

There are no birds that are resting
on the rotten wood.
The air stinks too much,
even for birds that are
flying by only to pass.
It is a sad field,
god forsaken
where the water rots the grass
and there are .... a thousand and more....

Now it has become overloaded
and there are too many crosses
and it is heavy  for the earth
that is hardly able to tolerate
the weight without sinking.

HUMAN EXTRACT

On a wall,
a stain of blood!

PORTRAIT OF A BIRD

A little bird in a cage,
dying bird,
without any grain
without water
hidden.
The evening comes.
The cold comes.
The tyrant hand comes too,
covering with rough cloth
the rusty cage
making you still live
one daybreak,
one gallant dawn,
that mixes itself up
with your happy notes
with rare melancholy.

It is coming to you
the song that listens to the voice
of the bottom of a shrewd and silent dale.
Without a moan
a sweet and smoothed stone falls,
then the rumble that soon extinguishes itself
in the night that has known recognition of it.

A mouth organ
on the outskirts
is listening to the sweet
soft
smooth echo
of a strange adventure....
and dreams of red lips.
Frigid
dry
hard
the metallic sound of a bell
that is playing at midnight,
thus the concert of the slaves
freed by the snow-storm.

In the perfect obscurity of the night
both laughing and crying
is a white statue .
All around
there is an area of peace
that is giving me warmth and sleep.
It is death, maybe,
or the illusion
maybe tired of living

It is a feast!
Tonight there is a great feast
at the Poverty Square in the hamlet.
Many men and many women
together united and actual.
The sons are sick
like their fathers.
They are hungry
but the food is still not ready.
All are waiting for the sacristan
but the sacristan isn't there.
He is in church eating a wing of turkey.
-" The sacristan is praying" -
-" Good man "-
Finally they start to eat.
Tonight there is a feast here
but also somewhere else
there are other people eating and speaking
about nothing
probably in a different way.
Many great men and many first ladies
so clean,
together with their sons
certainly clean like their clean fathers.
Surely they don't know
that the great feast is only to the hamlet:
the common food on a great table
the merry-go-round....
the greasy pole
the fakir.
Now all are laughing
and all embrace each other
while the sacristan comes right in time
for his part of bread and wine.
Suddenly a drunk man
rises from afar.
He was one of them
but he had been to Rome's heart
and felt different
like in happier days
-"Hurrah to the town"-
He shouted,
-"Hurrah"-
After, he wobbled
leaning himself
on the light
of a street lamp.

Someone is lost and he is still looking for himself.
He has dressed elegantly
like a capon of luxury
and has sung songs,
very bitter songs.

-Daniela....Daniela....Where are you?-

He was someone
that was walking along the Tiber.
Sometimes he turned himself to look back.
He met a friend speaking about the University,
another that was talking about south Italy,
and many others telling about
the month of May in France.
He has listened to all
then said that they all were right.
After, he starts singing
very cheerful songs.

-Daniela....Daniela....Where are you?-

He was someone that was walking
or more simply,
was trying to turn the mill of the earthly waters.
He has met a priest that was talking about life,
a child that would die,
a poet that didn't know what day it was
and a bride dressed like Daniela
that warned him about the rain that he didn't see.
And someone took away his hat
and he began to sing like a madman,
with tears on his face
while the air hid the enigma
of a serene day.

WORDS OF A LOST MAN

Don't be afraid.
You also will get your portion of food.
Thus you will wait and rest
then you will awake looking around
like a lost man
searching for other food
but another one
will already have gotten your dinner.

Sweetness of a feast day
for a man that keeps silent about the future,
a woman that denies love...
wretchedly joined by a worn out and exhausted present.
A sad gull is flying.

-Who is ruling this feast day?
A mother swallow is dying!
-Who is ruling this feast day?
-Silence!
The feast has ended!
They come back,
the men and the women
eternally slaves of their fears
to drink the acid wine of the waiver.
Bitterness of a feast day
when the feast is bitter
and our eyes turn to the sky
lighting with anger
yet a star!

ANNA'S HOME

Hey stranger!
Don't go there.
that is Anna's home.
You will look at it
and your veins will break
and each drop of your blood
will make the leaves
in her garden grow green.
Her breasts will become more fertile
and more prolific her love.
Don't go to Anna's
there is life which lives
and self wriggles
between grey blots of ashes.
You'll turn up your nose
and will twist your mouth,
after you will kiss her virgin earth
and will listen to the despair of her song.
It is your end
and you will begin to die
beneath the tender wind of her summer
biting and sensitive
like a recall and an insult.
Here you are little boy of tears,
fighter of everything,
That one is Anna's home.
She will give you an ounce of life
and a gram of hope,
then you will discover your salvation
into her black smile of death
and you will breathe the smoke of her hair
and Anna's home
will be your royal palace and your tomb.
Are you also listening
to this incredible jolt of the earth
and this insufferable rain of sky and stars
and which misery
is sitting here
so far from her spring?
Run then run.
The last day is waiting for its end.
Anna's house is opening empty hope for you.
You will lie on her thorns,
will caress her stoned flanks,
will abandon yourself on her ice-cold lips,
will sing at last your desperate death
and will recite yours slave's monologue
pulled out to the freedom
of your dreams.

MIRROR

How brittle is the mirror of man.
It is enough that it crashes in an instant
against something,
it breaks into a thousand pieces
and makes a deafening noise.
How hard it is after,
finding and connecting again
all the right pieces
putting them together!

THESE LIVING MOMENTS

These moving words which inspire me...
This fresh daring of something pure...
This scrap iron that doesn't tire my arms...
This Easter waited for and forgotten...
This wine drunk and vomited...
This sacrilegious wafer which enters into the heart...
This nude body next to yours...
This stupid passage where the people stumble...
This squeamish cigarette that makes the soul like acrid...
These stones that self dress the body...
This pen which writes
because this is a moment in which
my head totters under these delirious journeys.
This drug which floods my field...
This speech spoken with an absent minded friend...
This God which you never find ...
This true love searched and destroyed...
This eternal waiting of fruits from the earth's trees...
This tiredness which now is sending to sleep my tired hand...
These...these..these moments which I live...

I AM

I am
the song of summer which bites the coast
and ruffles the waves.
I am
the voice of the winter
which thunders and scratches the walls and dyes
the space with the color of your blood.
I am
the last leaf of a green tree,
the last notes of a happy song,
the illusion which is what I think
about myself is real.
I am
the image of the indifference that pierces my soul,
I am the cinder which is burning myself down,
the brute power
the sin
the love which cancels the memories.
I am
the life which is calling your name
but still it doesn't know the frontier.

Man
that is watching
man
that is searching.
Where's your place?
Surely neither here nor there
or wherever you can find yourself
putting one's foot down to watch the sun.
This is your heaven.
They taught you this
and you with your hands grimed
from the dust
and from the blood
don't know who is treading on you,
who is laughing behind your back.

Man
with your praying hands and fat tummy,
a woman is looking for you
and has pointed out
the street of shame
man that is praying.
I went there
while you were getting your last dinner
man
important man
man that likes buying
man
thief
or saint
or just
Saint Thief
no matter who you are
in the end this is your moral.
How much does your freedom cost?
How much is your truth worth?
What does your life mean?
Today
man that is trembling
man that is sweating
fetid dead' sweat
among the ashes
that you're strewing
over your slavish walking.
Man that is crying
someone has ordered you to go ahead
and you are going
so alone, wet like a chick
in search of a brooding hen
or of a whore
and now you find yourself
drinking like a cuckold.
Touching man,
that has nothing
and doesn't know anything.
Man
that is shaking
because your creed is the falsity
and you live in this town of lies
in this country of lies
in this world of lies.
The enemy flags
are joining themselves
for the same battle
and you get sick of thyroid.
Didn't poor stupid man know it?
How many Fridays without meat
have you collected?
How many nights have you trembled
because your priest wanted you safe?
Man
anemic man
man
that is sleeping.
Man
ridiculous man
that is living on stones
to live in peace.
Don't you know that peace
is the end of your life?
For how much time
has peace fattened
the tummy of the priest
the tummy of the consul
the tummy of the lord of your lands?
How many times did you get whipped?
Man
man that is loving
man that is fighting another man
without reason
man which is looking for something
worth living for
man which she doesn't love
because you have never been her man.
You had said to her:
- You will follow me wherever. -
and she, now laughing
with her white teeth
that drives you crazy
has let you watch her nude body and said: -
This belongs to me baby,
and I do what I want with it -

Man,
jealous man
how can you answer her
if you don't know whether
to kill or to die with dignity
man without willpower
and without sense.

Small, insignificant drops of rain
that lose themselves in the immensity of the sea,
and then nothing more!
...and the friendly drops that were joined
in the dreadful descent
confuse themselves with the others
and they
will never find themselves together
anymore!

MOTHER

A mother was suffering in silence
next to a glass window without eyes.
Two eyes
looked at the river
watched the trains
followed the roads
glanced at all the park benches
looked into a hospital
and into the underworld of the outskirts.
At the end
two eyes come back home
disappointed.
Then,
the sound of footsteps
one violent breath,
a door opened itself ahead of time,
one kiss
and nothing more!

FILTER

Why a filter on a cigarette
if the cigarette will be smoked equally
and the ashes will fall
covering the paper work of the office,
these archives of lived stories all alike,
all different.
Now I see them
living oblivious
under my eyes.
One thin veil for a bride
one cassock
a military uniform
are winging in the air:
patiently
they wait for their part of the ashes

There is always a thing after another
that follows everything
like a shadow a man
Past you, am I
and past me there is another and more.
In progression,
in indian line,
we poor asses are pawing violently.

Ghostly branches
that throw themselves
into the emptiness
looking for the foothold.
Do Renounce!
Still one time
the renounce
gets something more.
The metallic branches
that take origin from my body
disappear now
under a light blow
of an aurora borealis,
under the eternal song
of  hope:
it is the emptiness
that is filling itself
of myself!

Always remember to turn off the night lamp
and turn on your soul lamp.
If it doesn't turn on
turn your night lamp on again
but if it turns on
rest to sing
in the darkness of your light.
Remember also
that in the night there is always
someone that is going
that doesn't know where to go
like a suffering spirit,
like your soul sometimes has been going,
and mine did too.
Remember also
if you have seen someone making a mistake
it is because you have done this before him
and nothing could be worse than this
because you were the first one.
And remember me
that I have talked to you in a moment of love
while you were telling me stupid stories
and I was trying to tell you
something about us
while only the wind
was listening to my foreign words.

Hand in hand
tenderly
two little boys look at a pink balloon floating up to the sky
and they are so happy
tenderly hand in hand.
 

Boyhood
whose thoughts don't think of death
joyfully serene about a dream which is living
till transfigured in time
both soul and body
will find in the sky
the echo of a pain never suffered,
the echo of something that has exploded,
the double face of a coin
that deeply sounds false.

You are moving yourself
in front of this temple
gathering the whole desire
that goes up to your flanks
exciting your mountains
and you give yourself to the earth
which is offering you life.
You move your features
and the eyes lose the necessary time
to stop one second of your image
an instant of your body
meandering and vibrating
sensitive and mocking. ..
and your flounces of the sky and wind
dancing dizzily in my mind.
I go up towards you,
finally I reach out to your body
and this dance now is melting within me:
you become my soul
and your senses
become the dizziness of life
and in your lips my will to live.

Please ...shut up!
The voices keep silent.
After my loneliness penetrates
in a cosmic silence of absence.
That's life my love
the one that makes you wish for emptiness
and then gives you the fear of the abyss!

Monica
how much rain is in this earth!
How much spouted milk
from seedy breasts
is flooding these houses,
these streets
sometimes purified from the tears
or killed and hidden behind a corner
behind each corner
when we hide ourselves not to be seen.

Monica
don't dwindle away
the mystery of this simple day
gathered from the trash
ridden roughshod from all.
We live another dimension of the truth
and the flamed dawn
rejects the day
loving the night.

Monica
I tightened you
between my arms
while on our road
a firing sunset stopped itself
and trembling we call each other by our names
getting drunk
in the vineyard of the unconsciousness.
Already we have taken off
these shoes that covered our feet
and we felt rocks and stones.
Then we left,
after we came back,
but we didn't find ourselves
and the wine that had given us
the drunkenness
now acrid is in my cup
How acid and bitter is my cup I'm drinking,
Monica.
Bitter cup like pure wormwood,
even heartless and sweet like the blood,
virgin and holy like the education of feelings.

Monica where are you?
I sing your song
in the day and in the night
flying from one season to another,
stopping to rest for a while
on one moment of springtime
breathing my sweetest taste of April
but not one dove neither a little olive twig
on this pitiless,
absurd horizon
like the politician’s voices,
the false religious,
the idiotic lovers,
the unfaithful friends
and like you,
Monica
that went away
without a word
taking away from me
the necessary power
so that I could get the upper hand on my life.

Monica
how much love I've been giving to you
and to all that were like you
that are like you.
How much love
ruined in the abyss of the indifference
and how much indifferent
I became
among hunger's howls
in the middle of rabid bitches of the hypocrisy.
In this complete earthly defeat
there is no tomb
that is resting in peace,
no birds that are not keeping
their folded wings and don't fall into my hands,
no prayer whose voice I don't hear,
but I don't react
and this voice rests like a desolate singing,
it remains lifeless
like a deaf recall
without  meaning
without pity.

Why all this
Monica?
How much time I've been spending
looking for you
my little flame of power and courage,
sweet drop of wine.
If only it was possible for you
grazing my tired heart
then you would leave
without regret your bed of stones
and would come to live and to die
with me
without hiding yourself behind the corners.

Tired
confused
absent
I remember all the times
that we stood on the road,
all the times
that we have read and understood the stars,
the grass that has gathered our bodies,
those acrid cigarettes that made us mediocre,
the wind that has blessed and transformed us.
It was just there
that we got like symbols
of a useless time
and you threw yourself
between my arms
widening to me all your frontier of candor.
We burnt our bodies
with lips of fire
and into one violent embrace you said:

- Monica never would get the sleep of the slaves! -

Monica
now you are resting
in the bed
that never will be mine.
You,
my earthly symbol,
which haven't understood my love
have changed the face
of these stones of mine forever
my last instant of naïvety !

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