the discreet peace of a late summer


it is a wonderful day that looks me straight in the eyes/ the cleanest moment when the sky of deep blue is leaning on the shoulders of the earth/ and the grass hardly grows as if from an ocean with its tips slowly swaying

it is easy to tie with the knot of your scarf two skies or two earths/ the scythe of bygone times seemingly bites from the future/ human beings are bits of sunshine because the thing that births them also kills them/ somewhere upon the sky of their soul

some of them cry without tears like the sad lunatics
those who never cried in vain
those who drop their teardrop as if from a wound in order to protect the life of lives about to come
with their faces gentle and sunken like leaves falling still tender
half-dead half-alive

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song for the bewitched pumpkin


it was a beautiful story about little girls big as acorns reading other stories
sitting upon bewitched little mushrooms
with hot milk with honey inside amber cups before bedtime

I sat with my ear on forest soil
searching for the tree of trees
the giant from the fairy tale
his words stilled the whole breathing
didn’t you know that trees speak louder than the wind?

stay calm hard-boiled apple sun of a bastard goldfinch mouthwatering gingerbread
today I need to draw a rainbow like a hammock for all the dreaming in the world
like children do before ever seeing one
I miss the forbidden fortress that grows for centuries within ourselves
I cried and I believe that my teardrop is the stem of sunrise
let it be for offerings and sinlessness

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bound to be happy


we sharpen the bread knife. we spread the bilberry jam on the white
bread slice with the blade of the knife. clouds after clouds gather
over our heads. it almost smells like rain you tell me how beautiful
it will be when it will rain. how good it will be the very next moment.
we tell to each other our tales about the edge of time upon which we sit
back to back. only a piece of ground from where we will never escape.
after all what else can be happiness but this standstill. before something new
would happen. you know just like me that we almost forgot that we’re humans.

the wind is our friend and the silky rain the same. this make believe
of seen and unseen things. that means even the sun and even the black cats
that used to be scared in front of us hiding in the ill being of the night
because of too many exorcisms or too many domesticated gods. now
it is good even for me the one too much forgotten by her kin. I can see
beyond the animal side of things. I know that time flows and the price
of each and every word is bigger that it seems. we are together and this
is good. that’s what you tell me. I say that we are sad. a kind of merciful
and conscious sadness. something beautiful that makes the spectators of
the human condition to cry or to smile without being noticed by the others.
we are just two people or maybe many people who are bound to sell
opium for peanuts to others. yes.

it is wonderful that the world makes music or the world is changing
its underwear that the stars are silver spurs for a life that drags the yoke
underneath. the only reality that exists and thus we respect because
it is the one and only and we two we look at each other with love or
with the boredom of being alive we too in the same instinctual manner.

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the wisdom of the ground


you are not worth yet the price of a mustard seed
you lived neither 7 years of drought nor 3 nights without a day
through the core of your eyes you let inside a hurry-scurry
of swarming cherry petals flocks of crowned swans sunrises with a purple mantle

and all the vain beauty of this world

the gray nun’s outfit is so straightly cut
and the vestment of the nightingale is so poor
so do listen my friend to the deaf-mute mother swaying her sleeping baby
listen to the wordless and powerful silence in the last communion

yet it is still too much

I saw once a woman in a funerary cortege, the other women cried aloud or wept along the way, only she lagged behind like a sluggish stone she hardly breathed when the road suddenly climbed and the funeral banner fell at the graveyard’s gate, she was still silent like the earth, some people said that she was a witch or evil because she did not speak, but she looked gently towards them with pure and sparkling eyes

I met once a man who loved his child and gave him a beautiful fairy tale to be read every night, after many years the child deserted him and did not come back, but the old man looked at the child’s picture with the same love in his eyes, when he died people said that he was a bad man because he kept silent and thus the rats ate him in his grave, but after a few more years his child became silent too looking at others like his father did once

you are not worth yet the price of a mustard seed and neither do I

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jagged


life is jagged
it sticks with doggish eyes to your ankle
and asks for fondling
at the border of the wasteland
where the long black engine whistles from time to time

but life is jagged and has no pity
alike the human brain seen under microscope
it has an extended area if you unfold it
each little street from the slums bears the name of a saint
there the scent of barbecue and beer mixes with incense
the magicians play tough games
forcing the neighboring constellations
to disappear
they bury them over the heads of everyone
under pleated and fanciful dresses

and fog falls in for the people who died for saintly matters
those who don’t understand the stubbornness of the bull
compelled to fight
with its bloody horns
there is the Moon climbing on the sky heavier and heavier
red or yellow
jagged on its edge like an old weeding knife

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