You will look for me when the sun will dry your tear
and passenger lovers will accuse your pain,
when you escape from the world's horror and fear,
when the gentle breeze's music will fall down as rain.
Or not...

You'll look for me when your excuses will be drowned
and your warm, ruby glance ​​will look for an answer,
when my laugh will have a contagious sound,
when you meet me on the street, in the arms of a dancer.
Or not...

You're going to look for me, grumpy and full of hesitation,
when the thighs of the nights will be closer than yesterday,
when I'll not look back for a long time from love's station,
when rhymes will be written on violin accords, in my holiday.
Or not...

You're going to look for me and ask me with your sight
if red rose petals of romance had fallen over my life,
but I will not let the flame burn me anymore, in the night,
even if your memory I will let it go, without a strife.
Or not...

No, I'm not a poet.
I'm just an interpreter of tales in which tears are drops of longing ...
Tales, in which I hear through my ears
echoes of an invisible and indivisible world ...
I sometimes like to pour myself a little red
and sweet wine of the silence cup,
the inner silence is erupting from me,
which seems to me to be a deaf-mute dispute between heart and reason ...

No, I'm not a poet.
Only words are fighting against me,
but still, I feel my heart is lifting in their arms,
with the same intensity as at the beginning...
The letters in my words do not need arguments,
they just want to free themselves,
to touch souls more and more, joining in verses,
their destinies being knotted with rhymes ...


No, I'm not a poet.
I'm just a human beeing who, for a few moments,
has a breath of inspiration,
swallowing with greed the air from the room
where I lay down my silence, my love, my longing,
trying to transform words into a vibrant power, almost tangible.
Sometimes I use words with a killing flesh of attraction,
like a masterful crowning of the letters that take hold of my pen...
and sometimes with a gentle, sweet glance,
whispering voluptuously, making my rhymes fall on their knees ...


No, I'm not a poet.
I just measure the universe with a hungry, critically eye-catching curiosity,
while the aroma of my coffee is flowing in the air,
escaping from the espresso,
mysteriously and dazzling...
I just caress the words on the pavements of the lyrics
peeled by the rains of the heart where the letters are sad and lonely...

Now I retire with a slight bow,
as an unspoken satisfaction, in front of all those who read me,
in front of the ones you know me...
A delusive lust to write a few lyrics has taken me by surprise...
maybe about truth, maybe about numb dreams,
maybe about the cure of lost hearts... which is love!

I write with letters of the silent alphabet
the foreword is a short criticized page.
With my heart pounding and silence as my bed
I notice that my life will step to another stage.

I will not be a poet, I will just pretend
that I use noble and enchanted words
I'll write, but I'll be not famous at the end
I'm going to search for the emotions of verbs.

And the non-colorful muse with which I feed,
will be hiding in the comfort of billions of stars
will feel melancholy this entire universe of greed
my eardrums will have an echo of silence and scars.

Yesterday...
I was going on the edge of life with the nicked soul
the disappointment in me was announcing the storm,
but the eyes, pointing to the infinite horizon's goal,
like two blue pearls, vibrated restlessly and warm.

Today...
I admit, without any disagreement or resistence
that my world that was lost beyond any sight,
which at some point evoked a certain distance,
did not want to be just a poor mortal in the night.

Tomorrow...
I hope I'll have the soul infused with care and love
to believe in the harmony of the unblemished bells,
to pass all on the universe of the divine realm, above...
and me... to be born again with crystalline shells.

There are beatings of sharp wings in the air
and the fear haunts in this mocking mourning
that boils inside instead of blooming,
under her temples the anger is rolling.

With the face of a mortal, she is condemned
to endure the vaporous sea of ​​desolation,
she wants to extinguish the fountain of the stolen fire,
she moans in vain, she's cursed by the gods.

The blow of the rage throws her into the sea of ​​fire
with burning strike of tempest and flood,
the whip of the gods harassing the heavens,
almost lightning everything until flames.

Until the infinite smile of the sea waves
it'll not dry up its powers and will forget it all,
when she will find the harbor of her fears,
she'll cross the strait with a courageous heart .

I believe… that the night hides abyss of silence,
fleeting butterflies swirls and bends over my eyelashes,
gloomy shadows, shuddering cavalcades of emotions,
the seed of light breaks down the tangled paths of life …

I believe... that nostalgia has the perfume of a rainbow
what strikes the unwritten verse between my lips,
with withered sounds resonating on the alley of life
the noisy clinker wants the world to amuse ...

I believe... that the water's murmur reflects bulbs of light,
the sad dance of the autumn cuts the road to ruins,
the trembling forest, dry, now deeply broken,
wants to mourne in front of heaven, making things right  ...

I believe... that springs will mirror in the quiet waters,
the serene sighs will once whisper my name,
to disturb the calm of warm hours with a charming smile,
to turn on the desire with his mouth hungry for love ...

I almost believed that autumn came,
that rains castles of emotions have built.
Who is guilty of all those things?
The forest on the crust of sadness slipped.

In fall's eyes you see the leaves in the wind,
seeking happiness, weeping for the summer.
For nobody ever-ever told them
what is the meaning of a true autumn.

The days and dawns seem so far now,
the golden leaves flow in a theatrical way.
It was the end of the autumns ball,
they listen triumphantly on the unobstructed paths.

Autumn, with her untrustworthy sadness
returns again, sipping the light of the forest.
Looks like all is floating, resembling to a wave,
they curl and crumble from shore into shore.

The silent trees on the fall's fragile shoulders
are like leaves in the arms of rains soldiers.
With divine lights come through the enchanted glass
at the crossroad to give her one more kiss.

The autumn of soul is like a bouquet of wind,
like love-loving salvation wandering in thoughts.
The sap of love penetrates into the holy rains
with cold splashes, for having the last words.