The will o' the wisp is
displayed on the screen of
conventions. There are those
who pretend to decipher it;
by borrowing philosophical speculations from the great
thinkers, they formulate a
critical reading, justifying the
poverty of the lexicon.
They dare to do so.
On the other hand there is
Poetry, sat on a bench
in a park somewhere, on a
rock nearby the ocean, on
an old chair in a remote room
without any other furniture,
on the pillow made with papers
of a clochard,
on the cover of an unabridged
book nobody wants.
On the trembling hand of a
young lover who picks flowers
for her, that remain forever
between the pages of a diary.
Poetry is in the multiplicity of life,
in the thousands layers, either
red or grey, that compound the
variety of the existence. It can't
escape feelings, love, roses,
tears, grief, graveyards and
gardens. And, even when it turns
to be redundant with naivety, it
keeps the greatness of its end
which is nothing else but itself.

Once there was Lady Death at
my side. She blew a cold wind
in my room; sang a lullaby of
indefinite colours, a tune
without sound. Neither black
nor white this sad lady wore.
I did not understand she was
there for me. So I began to talk
to her about external things and
life and butterflies. She told me
I would have gone back to the
stadium of a lizard, stuck on a
white rough wall warmed by
the sun. I felt my body heavy
‘till she opened a breach in my
forehead. Then she told me I
would have gone forward to
the stadium of a stone carved
by tears. I felt my eyes blind
‘till she opened a breach in my
soul and I shivered. She told me
at the end that I would have gone
back to the present to the stadium
of a chrysalis. Then she opened a
breach in my chest that poured
dust of pain and my heart became
a butterfly.

I don't know if names exist before
things or things exist before names.
I don't know if you are your name
or your name is you. I only know
that I hunt for words I can scream
out loud, I can pronounce tasting
the salt and the sweet inside a
noun that reminds me of you, I
can drink as it was the water in
your iris, I can swallow like waves
of red wine getting me drunk the
way you do. I hunt for words where
I can see you, I can find you, I can
feel you, even in other languages
because one is not enough.

My tears draw the
aerial view of a thick
wood, where the hands
of a ghost, carved an
easel whose flavour
brims my mouth with
crimson and purple.
Inspiration.
My tears draw the
shattered background
of a blurred photo of
green patches hanging
on an empty road.
Grief.
My tears draw branches
of olive trees kissing the
foam of the sea of sigh and
whispers.
Melancholy.
My tears draw palm lines.
They read long life
and well being.
Betrayal.
My tears draw the shape
of his eyes, wide open on
my consistency, as vibrant
as a melody of an arcane
chant, the fingerprints of
his protective gestures,
the circle of fire of his
embrace.
Love.

That turquoise light, my dear. Sparkling
on our faces when we ran across the
beach, raptured by a sudden craziness
as the waves embraced our flesh. Our
flesh. So fragile and yet strong under
the throw of the dice. I held your hand
while the waves slapped us with pleasure.
You held me tight while the flow of the sea
was taking me away, taking me away, under
the twist of fate. Keep my face on your mind
now and forever into the waves, into the waves…

Memories full of aching
branches of a ghost tree
sometimes a dim light
captures my eye, and
while I walk on the way
to it the arrival has a
brush with dark forces
turning off visibility
It's like being constrained by
a puppeteer controlling every
step, monitoring every move

And you know you can't trust
anyone
And you know you can't blame
anyone

They say you create your destiny
We are told we are responsible
for all the faults and flaws
success and glory
wealth and health
But how can we create our
Destiny if the others' agency
is unpredictable in this
blindfolded
chess game they call life.

Take me to the xylographs of Tunis
Where silken shades of colour  
Dissolve and reassemble  

Take me to the white veils of sand
Along with Elysia
To the oils of Giverny scented with
Climbing roses  

( I want to touch them with my fingers)

Take me to the orange rows of Laos and  
-further away-  let me
Into the magic Australian Outback

( I want to count how many dots exploding  
The picturesque of Aboriginals)

Take me to Berlin before the curtain on
The Night
To the peripheries of the world

( I want to look in the eye the eyes kept prisoner by Time)
Then let me into the remote echo of the invisible squares

The shape of your forehead
drops thoughts of light and
honey over my senses.
You're unaware of your beauty
when you take me by the hand,
gorgeous fingers blossoming on
my skin. Playing this mute game,
weaving the veins of my muscles,
you're unaware of your beauty