Swallows' games
in the summer sky.
They ****
flutter
play
drawing wefts
with black and white colours
and with embroideries
the blue vault
seems to be painted.
My eyes follow
but chasing them
they get tired
until exhausted I close them
and in the darkness
the swallows
still fly about.

30.6.'13

I meet every day
glaciers adrift,
with those mouths full
of empty thoughts,
the eyes
consumed by sadness,
the liver
soured by acridity,
the heart worn out
by a life without warmth,
too arid
not to go adrift
in the ocean of solitude.

28.11.'13

The great drought decimated the animals,
forcing them to survive on only a few drops of water
found here and there,
but one fateful day
a sudden storm
created a huge puddle,
which has become a fountain of life.
An ant is the first to find the fountain
but it has no time to drink
because a monkey orders it to leave.
“Go away.
This fountain is mine because I’m the strongest.”
And forces it to run away.
The monkey gets ready to drink
when a dog arrives.
“Go away.
This fountain is mine because I’m the strongest.”
The monkey quickly disappears
but the dog doesn’t manage to get anything to drink either
because a wolf approaches.
“Go away.
This fountain is mine because I’m the strongest.”
The dog flees
but before the wolf can drink,
a lion interrupts it.
“Go away.
This fountain is mine because I’m the strongest.”
So the wolf flees, too
and when the lion is about to drink,
a rhinoceros shouts:
“Go away.
This fountain is mine because I’m the strongest.”
Before the rhinoceros can taste the water,
an elephant arrives.
“Go away.
This fountain is mine because I’m the strongest.”
The rhinoceros vanishes
and when the elephant
draws its trunk near to the surface of the water,
the ant who first discovered the fountain stops it.
“Go away.
This fountain is mine because I’m the strongest.”
Elephants
don’t like ants
and so the elephant runs away.
When the ant,
even thirstier than before,
is just about to take a sip,
the monkey suddenly appears
and the story starts all over again
with the same animals,
none of which manages to drink any water
and this goes on
for days and days
until every last one of them
dies of thirst.

Dreams fly high
in the sky of wishes
driven by the winds
of our will
which, untiring, blow
and push you everywhere
tied to the thread of hope
which, strong, does not break
but they are papiermaché kites
and the tears
of those who surrender
are enough
to make them fall down
until the sun of the new day,
if we ever want to see it,
will dry those tears
giving them back to the sky.

27.6.’13

Unforgettable
you are
as every moment
spent together,
intense moments
summer storm,
sweet,
eyes that talk
miming hugs,
fleeting,
stop, Time,
and let Love
last a life,
sensual
tight tight
steeped in pleasure
moans, quivers,
the heart leaps.
Unforgettable
you are
nor could I
forget you
and may the day not come
nor the night
without you
desert otherwise,
far away from you,
hands that cling
to the void of nothing,
just for a while with you
nettle tears
that burn the skin
in the impotent memories,
never again with you
chanting the Unforgettable
among lines of verses
that seek
in the crevices of memory
useless reliefs.

31.3'14

All day long on the balcony
every day on the balcony
all night long on the balcony
every night on the balcony
two three brief walks
just to make
and then again on the balcony.
You watch the world
from a railing
sometimes you even bark
in most cases it seems a howl
desperate
desperate
you wait for food and a caress
a smell in a hurry
a voice that you think is friendly.
Hot or cold
rain or snow
you are always a balcony dog.
I don't understand
why you are there
and if I were you
I would have already thrown myself off.

27.11.’13

Is it more beautiful the moon
or the sun?
A night of stars
or a day of summer?
A drop of dew
or a reflection on the water?
Is it more beautiful
the almond tree in spring
or the mimosa
in its most intense yellow?
Don't ask me
what I love most
because an ocean
wouldn't be enough
to appease my thirst
and the universe
to fill up my heart.

20.2.'13

The sigh of the wind
doesn't stop
between the branches of the pine
made wet by the sky
and still the birds sing
because winter is far away
and they know that the sun
will soon come back.
I sit and wait
on the hardened sand
for the scent of the sea
to slowly rise
while around the boats
with the reflections of the light
dance and tell
symphonies of Spring.

When life
turns into
a bramble bush,
thicker and thicker,
bigger and bigger,
where the sun
doesn't filter anymore
and thorns
are everywhere,
when
even the caress
of a leaf
hurts and wounds
because nothing
is more difficult
than being aware,
let
the time
soothe pain,
the smile
shyly reappear,
let someone
plant a rose
in that bush.

20.10.'09

To the fantasy
I offered my heart
so that she might take me
where the mind
couldn't see,
beyond the swamps of man
and the boundaries of time.
To her
I entrusted my steps
among the bushes of thorns
and the roads of lava
that wound my feet.
So sad, Fantasy,
needing you
only to dream.
On fantasy
the child lives
on fantasy
the man dies.

23.3.'14

Here nothing lasts forever.
The flower withers
the snow melts
the stone crumbles
memories fade
our dear ones leave
loves end
smiles die away
the night gives place to the day
the peace to the war
the war to the peace.
Here nothing lasts forever.
And where you are now?

14.5.'13

You will remain a sunrise
that wakes me up in the morning,
a morning
that fills my day with light.
You will stay with me every day
so we can fall asleep together every night
and every night I will dream of you
waiting for the dawn
so I can wake up next to you again.

Drunk with solitude
he goes up the alleys
knocking doors
that no one opens.
Through a window
someone,
discreet, peeks.
The mockery of the children,
deafening echo, resounds.
Even a dog
doesn't want
to wag its tail.
Restless
he hurries his stride
until he finds himself
running
faster and faster
gasping
and then sweating
and then crying out
“Mum”
and at last
a door opens.

22.2.'09

I hand over
in front of the sea
my eyes to the evening
and for me she lays them down
on the wake of moon
there
until the last glow
will have adorned the sky
with diamonds and rubies
emeralds and topazes
and in the morning
when the sun
lighting up
rises
I will succeed in closing them again
to dream of beauty.

15.7.'13

When the sky
is tinged with pink
that blends
with the red
variegated with orange
and a veil of azure
wets
the purple contours
of long
shapeless stripes
of ultramarine blue
which lose themselves
in the white
of our
dreams.
That's it,
those
are our sunsets.
The sunsets
of January.

3.1.'10

I would like to grow old
waking up
every day
with a smile,
falling asleep
every night
with a hope.

I would like to grow old
always looking for
something to find out,
something to understand,
something to learn.

I would like to grow old
having close
someone who loves me,
someone who misses me,
someone to help.

I would like to grow old
with a flower to grow,
with a sunset
to admire,
with a God
to thank.


19.4.'09

Beyond the horizon
my mind wanders,
along the road
which leads
to new goals.
Ahead
and then still ahead,
indefatigably ahead,
without stopping,
without appeasing thirst
which drives
to new achievements.
Beyond the horizon
there's always another one.
I unfurl the sails
and let the wind
blow.

10.11.'09

Half moon in May
has stopped on my balcony.
She told me
of the heat of summer
that stifled her,
of the autumn rains
that wetted her,
of the cold of winter
that benumbed her
and of the sun of spring
that gave her a flower
and she told me
that the dryness
(of summer)
makes (the autumn)
weep tears
and freezes the heart
(of winter)
until the hope of the sun
gives birth to a rose
(in spring).


14.8.’13

“Look! A comet.”
“The comet!
The lover of the stars.
Among the noblest
and most precious
stars of the sky.”
“Why do they call it the lover of the stars?”
“Because the sky is harmony
but there's no harmony
if there's no satisfaction
and the stars
need a lover
who comes to see them
now and then
and if the stars
explode once in a while
that means
that they are unsatisfied
and sad
and tired
and that the comet
hasn’t arrived in time
to love them.
This is why stars shine.
Because they're happy.”
“I want to be a star, too.”

There is a little pearl box
in my heart
and sometimes I open it
to regale myself with joys.
I have picked them up
in silk seabeds
where caresses
have petals
and kisses
taste of honey.
I have found them
among rivers of smiles
with banks
coloured with passion,
in valleys
where fields are sown
with sweetness,
on mountain tops
made of attentions
where meadows are covered
with affections.
They are the loves of life.
There is a little pearl box
in my heart
and sometimes I open it
to regale myself with joys.

15.4.'14

That gust of wind is blowing tonight
bringing with it the scent of the sea
the sweet soft voices of children
who laugh as they play on the shore
and transform that gust of wind
into a harp that lifts my spirits.
I want to listen to the melodies of the sea
written for me on a moonlit night
under a sky streaked with light.
Gems of summer strewn with joy.

I want to love you
and I will not fear time
which corrodes passion,
I will not fear monotony
which sinks desire.
I want to love you without asking anything
but a bed of roses,
without looking for anything else
but your smile.
I want to love you to offer you the moon
and visit together the stars,
to plunge into the sea
and re-emerge in the sky.
I want to love you
and colour our home
with joys
painting in fresco the walls
with memories.
I want to love you
until the last sun sets
and if the universe is eternal
so will be our love.

22.3.'14

Has arrived a wave
on my beach,
full of blood
and pain.
It has died away
silent and sad
and among its foam
there was the smile of a child
who will never see
my land.

5.10.'13

Our gardens
have white flowers
but we cannot plant them
in every part of the world
because many gardens
have black flowers.
They will hate us
if we want to convince them
that ours
are more beautiful.

28.12.'14

When at night I slightly touch you
grumbling  you turn away,
I get closer to you in the morning
and yawning you turn over,
I look for a contact
to say hallo
and like a bear
without realizing you ignore me,
I get breakfast ready
and everything seems due.
I hint a smile
but even a glance
seems an effort
then we go to work
and if I call you
you sound surprised,
if I miss you
you don't notice it,
if I am sad
you don't perceive it,
tired
you don't care.
When it's convenient for you
I am here,
when I need affection
I don't exist,
when I need a caress
you don't know what to do,
a word
you don't waste your energy.
You look like a fakir
on a bed of thorns
and if I have made a mistake
it's because in youth
passion blinds
and it's worth more
than a sunset on the sea.

26.11.'13

The loves of the past
are like the wind
and when the wind is silent
the leaves sleep.
It’s almost as if they are thinking,
bored
sick of life
but the wind comes and goes
and when the wind blows,
the leaves stir restlessly
and sometimes,
if it weren’t for the branches,
they would disappear along with it.

The poet is a juggler
who uses words
instead of skittles,
is an illusionist
who hides dreams
in the top hat,
is a tailor
who chooses sunsets
to dress love.

29.9.'14

(to all the forbidden loves)

In the universe
there is room for every star,
only among the human beings
there is no room for every love.
I will wait to turn into a star
to be able to love you.

28.11.'14

In those days
when the sun lights
the contours of the clouds
that now and then
let glimpse the sky,
when my spirit does not know
whether to follow the sadness
of the shadows of the evening
that slowly appear
or the cheerfulness of the light
that veiled filters,
in those days
I stand still to recompose
distant echoes
of small
unforgotten
unforgettable
fragments of love.

26.12.’13

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