TO NOURISH THE DAY
To nourish the day
of the ancient time which has not a finish line.
From the earth and from the sky
penetrated words into our skin.
Miracles for the all dreams and the nightmares:
the past, the adventure of the senses
the answers to the question
of the clear stain on the wall
and of the removed painting.
It’s frail and vague, and swinging
the reason, and a dubious measure in every day
of what happens.
The day for the day message
every season is right to the wings
every eye over the radiant beauty.
All the rivers reflect the light.
All the rivers of the man, by degree,
according to their way.
The opened space and the chance
with every single thought healing.
IN NO PLACE
In no place at the other unknown
we could stay in the ideal calm
between the average band of the sea’s strait
and the green space by every side protected.
You came in to the country of wind
in the cultivated valley of àcanto’s leaves
and primary fruits like precious stones.
The numerous and hollow harbours in this lands
are dockings of ships coming from everywhere
and transport coloured and perfumed merchandises.
The myrtle’s shining berries and the nights of the moon
receive the water’s voice between the stones
a voice playing clear and feeble pipes.
The kiss is suspended in the air
in the place where you’re living now, known place.
My wait and the arrival have been fire
and revived embroidery of the senses
in the consumed cloak of the slow play
by the naked bodies on the meadows.
In ample and lonely landscape, on the meadows
vivid and large stains of colours, vegetable species
between the severe faces of the rocky masses.
And yet, wide islands of red assembled flower,
in a bright contrast, compensate the human absence.
And also here it’s comes daylight and comes evening
like in my home at your return,
you flower and I glance, in our landscape.
Enchanted by a sunrise, I go up
in the brightness trough the thread of amber
that will bring the sun, and woken up
in the blue transparencies I move the glance.
And the slow warmth that is spreading tells me
that I live in a serenity
already rested above an heron’s wing.
THE EVERY DAY’S DAWNS
In clear day is done readable
shining wing of the dawn
lucid hope of the new life
energy loaded of redness.
The heavenly driver of the calm and of the mastery
guides your joyful awakening on the horizon
and leads with inflexible reins
your journey between the opposing forces.
And the morning renews itself of numerous promises
the world offered to the youth of the day.
You, creature of dawns, witness and mirror,
with the gesture of a newborn baby.
This sky that is releasing light, of white
slow and measured notes, since morning, the snow
with rhythms falls.
And on a brown way, now there is the clearness
and it leads to a resting journey.
We, free by irritating shouts,
are unnoticed thinking men, declining
to the quiet and slow flow of the life
without more artificial interventions,
without more irregularities and angles,
provisionally come back to the harmonious singing.
IN REASERCH OF THE LOST TIME
(for a Marc Chagall's painting)
The violins are breaking the air this evening
and they are bringing flowers to your balcony.
A cart is flying upon the city
and the stars are singing songs.
Thousand eyes are waiting for
in a city dream, city flower,
city that is working and sleeping.
Lights in the night that are drawing the song
by a bright arch of a star comet,
embrace the Mother and the glorified Son.
Silent night of the new hope
and of every man who makes his journey
with real gifts, but also by his thoughts.
Is born at new day the Precious Images
which gives harmony and measure to every man
and relief of prayer that we subsides.
The word of the good-men will have no boundary
and summit will be in the divine light.
Night emerged between the choirs of angelic songs
and followed by us that we are among the shepherds.
Every face lights up with wonder
and the split harmonies heals.
Night in which every woman returns to being a mother
and earthly figure of the same prodigy
that enhances and nourishes, and ignites the life.
Ground, and always ground…nourished ground ...
Kneaded ground for us forged
in the shape of…image and resemblance
for a "lively body" of the man created
in imperfect state and of foresight.
Body of the ground who had the gift of vision
hidden capability to intuit,
to foresee with the power of myth
of the magician and of the poet.
Mechanical man and alchemical formula
moulded, subsequent and divergent figure
of an ethical and spiritual structure
that will come, not waited, performing or performed.
Utopia of a man
modified medium in the trial of the decadence
in progress of the knowledge and of the intellectual doubt.
Ground of ashes and of microorganisms
creativity of principle and end.
Ground of substance that sustains
beauty of nature, water flowers and branches,
and air in which we move the lips.
Climate and mood of culture, ground
modern to the fruit and indifferent,
production of meanings and sense
exchange of routes for us always foreigners.
An uncertain foot has the man who sees,
recall of a mystery – and of a pride --
to have been on ground in wake.
From sacred ground of arteries flowing
I was a secret note in pools of water,
astonished for healthy rivers, willows and blackberries
from mysterious whitened walls of mountains vibrating
by phosphorescent cracks and smooth stones .
Stream of untilled plains
trickles and sparkling bubble,, foaming
between white mulberries and rough junipers
adorned with embankments of moss
for brown shades, swollen breathings
splinter and diamond in the aquarium, I've been.
And then I, with alliance of other waters re-poured
joined and abundant, immersed
with force and impetuous toward other beaches and ample forests.
For silvery precipices of white waterfalls
I’m jumping into unexpected symphonies and different
rotating and thrilled and bright in front of the wind.
Renewed entity in the whirl of the senses
and anchor of the marks of beauty
falling in the sleep of a wide placid bank
of a bed of water, which at the arrival decreases
for small streams and touched houses
messenger of poetry and walking
among the arms of the people.
DEW AND WORDS
The dew on the grass has come silent
and in distilled life,
nourishing in the early morning
already scene of a theatre that is beginning.
By scattered droplets on the green
in a thousand reflections
it writes in this hour its image.
Becomes human appearance
the stalk which has shiny blade.
Vanishes the wet drop tempted by the sun,
it changes in veils of clouds, returns
by aerial thoughts in thousand drawings,
far it raises the embroidery of the plays
in the sky of the fantasy.
Words and drops of light and of a sea
I find by window of air, at awakening.
Between ground and sky, every day
we descend, we go up, for subtle moods we change.
THE SPRING IS STILL… (Spring’s lights)
The spring is still in unknown where
immature sleeping girl
in a curtain of veils that is opening, uncertain
of its apparition.
Already slight of charm and perfumes, colours
that are moving in the air fragile wings,
and sending warnings of new waiting lights.
Appears the arrival in the remembering meadow
that adorns its of green and with new branches
in March, in bright dawn.
The Spring will be born among some days, already painter
of an old curtain, waving
and in fresh moods, sensations to us
in clear memory, of yesterday,
and is one year already.