I spoke with the waves
which capricious
come to the shore.
They seem to play with each other
who first arrives
to lap the beach
which curious
awaits.
They told me
that everyone of them
carries a mystery of the sea
that later becomes
a grain of sand
and now I know
why the grains of sand
are different from each other.
They are the mysteries of the sea
brought by the waves
for those
who want to listen to them.

4.2.'14

In the past
passion
used to wake me up in the morning
caressing my hair,
stirring the senses
which in the torpor
were delighted.
Imagination
was her friend
and together,
holding hands,
would stroll on my body.
In the past
passion and imagination
used to kiss me in the morning
filling my bed
with memories and hopes
and allowing the desire
to make me see
even in the dark.
They would call fantasy
who still young
loved dreaming
and with the most beautiful embroideries
would adorn my heart.
In the past,
passion, imagination
and fantasy
used to wake me up in the morning.

In the past.

5.2.’14

The sky rumbles
and the lake ripples.
The dusky clouds,
presage of the storm,
darken the day.
The birds keep silent
the seagulls disappear
and on the quay
the boats,
creaking, move.
Shaken
the reeds bend
and eddies of algae
seethe in the waters.
The first rain falls
and announced by the thunder
sudden
the storm arrives.
Quickly comes
and quickly goes.
It's a whim of summer.
Nothing more.

21.7.'13

Our mirror
is history,
its frame
touching fables,
its glass
horrendous tragedies.
Our past
is always present
and so will be in the future
but changing the man
is possible,
just remove the salt
from the ocean.

2.10.'13

The scent of the sea has arrived
on the wings of the wind
and I have waited
for the sun to sleep
on the bed of the horizon
to let the city lights
dissolve my eyes
in the reflexes of the water
while a long trail
of gaudy golden jewels
stole my mind
to give it back to the silence.

16.11.'13

Saranè
is sweetness to kiss
when the first morning lights
shine upon the hair
that my hands cover
and my senses graze.
Saranè
is impetuous yell of passion
that the voice of wind whispers
when even a day
without love
changes the heart
into a desert.
Saranè
is beauty that makes sigh
when the waves of the sea
strew us with reflections,
is tenderness to keep
while the smile
lights up the eyes
and if the stars disappear
I will know
where to look for them.

31.12.'13

The cold will come
colouring the mountains,
painting white
the peaks
and drawing the slopes
with the winter sun.
It will silver the plains
and with frost and ice
will cover the meadows.
The cold will come
to change the sea
raising the foamy waves
and darkening the blue.
The cold will come
to clean the sky
flooding it with light
and transparent beauty.
The cold will come
and it will numb people
who will count the days
to see spring again.


25.12.'13