Aleph

To be old and white
And not ashamed to walk in the rain with a black umbrella
Obviously painted in white
Like an old-fashioned mill,

So white that even the white cherry petals are
Too heavy for the top of your head
Such as you look out of place
Compared with other people, with the red cars, with the rain
Within children’s nostrils

You keep on walking, wise like a tin toy drummer,
Bringing to life the whole orchestra,
Waking up those who believed they were awake,
You are the white of the paper
Upon which the world wrote a masterpiece
And erased it

Habits

Good evening, your highness.
How is your sleep now in winter?
When leafless walnut trees show their gray smooth bark,
Effectively when all the trees seem mellow and ill
As if something is missing there,
Where the branches grow from their stem nodes.

Something is breaking there

Your highness, I am too young,
Something new still trembles inside me,
Something does not know how to let itself go
Along the road
And opposes its own nature,
And I am like a newborn not accustomed yet to resignation,
I would like to succeed even if the odds are against me,
I would like to control the back-and-forth movement of the sun
As if it were a golden pendulum,
And

Then I awake and I am sorry
That I complained
It is winter time and everything seems to grow
And I am happy

The light breaks into sparkles,
Life is an old habit, your highness,
Rebel sparks fleeing their mother’s eyes,
Like incandescent dust,
A Eucharist from centuries ago.

Mouse paintings

Eternal youth

The infant opened his eyes and asked the sky:
who are you mother?
tell me if I am like you.
The sky kept silent and the child started to cry.
turn your face to the woods, my child.
do you see that tree struck by lightning?
How could he keep inside himself the fire and the light?
How many years did it take until he fell broken in two?
how much love, how much beauty, how much truth, how much sorrow?

The child began to cry louder.
Mother, I miss you, tell me where I can find you.
Shut up, my child.
Look over the chimney, what do you see?
The child saw the whitish trail of smoke rising slowly in the air.
At the end of that frolic twist of smoke, there were three stars.
Then two. Then one.
The child covered his eyes and ran inside the house.

Old and frail, the child looks towards the three stars once more
and smiles: and you, my son, you too are like me.

Some of my poems

my smashwords page

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/725390