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More beautiful than this is impossible, I hear you say to me,
when the piano song leaves for afar from my ears.
I too cry, don't you see, it is not only you crying,
the silvery-green rain weaves for me a dress and the unskilled sun
seams it with untrodden grass.

My fingertips are only a shadow, I don't want
to die as long as I am alive,
there is a delta for everything,
for all the crying of those who have souls,
a sunrise for the wings of thin and long water birds,
who take flight below
closer to the river's reflection of the sky.

Today I love myself
and I am lonelier than yesterday and maybe
I am in love with all the lovers in this world,
I value their full moments after they take a share of everything,
form every mirror of this world
where they see themselves,
I can't, I simply cannot breathe any longer, because I am happy.

I am fifteen years old and my name is woman or maybe willow.
and then I gather in a trunk the holy clothes and the holy foods
and I left
somewhere not too far away,
because my road was written in ink,
after I delved in an eye for a piece of time, only at the edge of the eyelid.

today I still live within myself
and it is very hard for me to go away
where the soul is not a queen and the reason does not usurp it

it is too much sun and the moon cries with a scent of death
I have very sad eyes and white hands.
My child will be born happy.

Over the earthen bread the napkin of the sky will fall,
the baptism of my son among the men who, just like me, love
their land and their work, the joy of giving, the beauty of being human,
the tall firs’ grace, the murmuring waters, the living seed within the ground.
Upon the teardrops of ****** pain a song will fall,
that unseen song that was written on a starlit staff.

For us it’s raining too much, too often,
someone gathers all cornflowers and scatters them on our bed.
When I look into my child’s eyes I am smaller and smaller,
I am warmer and warmer and I have a house of my own
with fireplace and toys,
with simple windows that let the clear sky come in entirely
after my child wipes off the steam of his breath.

All those flowers between us and we stay together.
My child plays with my fingers without counting them.
For him they are more and more as he touches them.
Just like me, he was born happy.
my child does not exist, here I see his birth as a symbol
today’s pigeons are heavy they carry churches on their backs
they rest on my windowsill when it rains like oiling
and the world anoints to heal its lack of love
i get angry because i cannot make them leave  
they stay as long as they please knowing what i will never know
with their placid eyes in the light of this century
sometimes white-feathered
i reread the bible and my old letters under magnifying lens
my bow-tied memories
cut them as if a deck of cards to see what’s drawn out
it’s amazing nothing changed i grew old sitting at the wooden gate
on a wooden chair in  a life with basil drying under rafters
and grapevines uprooted
tell me what can be found before pain
an upside-down cross between heart liver and stomach
what lies downwards swells like biscuit in milk
and what lies above screams
like Saint Peter would have screamed
upturned cross at the foundation of the church

tell me what survives longer between the four cardinal points
made of living flesh and bluish blood
before pain it is peace and after pain silence
or maybe the opposite
before pain it is the word and after pain only the shadow
motionless unmovable powerless like a flag at half-mast
like sacred banners on the road to the graveyard

let it be yours bighearted man
the rice grain in which I sculpted
a white monastery

( August, 4th,  2014)
my life ends here / on a Sunday’s evening
after the cross and the globe on the church’s steeple became cooler
I have never felt more non-pain non-love non-fear
the asphalt feels empty and dull for my soles / the resounding box lost its echo
I step further asymmetrically / my soul is slanting / I have no better thing to do

than to stare at people right into the whole / the full of them
without any thought
only the shadow of my elbow embraces other shadows
en passant
silhouette after silhouette
Modigliani’s women / Brâncuşi’s magic birds
la dolce morte della luce
everything flows into thoughts / thoughts into other thoughts even Charon’s boat
and right now my lips paralyzed to stop me from proving something
at first the woman sits in the man’s hand when he’s resting
if he goes to work he leaves her in a dimple on the bed sheets
she yeasts like dough
she raises
and picks all flowers all apples all grains
he comes back and sees the disaster
powerless
he sees into her belly through the tips of his fingers
she sweeps and cleans afterwards
the patch of earth they sit upon together

the man and his woman
untie the comets’ tails with their hands united
they’re a supercontinent for a moment
if they break apart unnamed oceans and archipelagos emerge
under the front of his head the front of her head and so on
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