that moment
as fragile as a snowflake
when I slip into another's poem
and something inside twinkles
like a firefly full of wonder

"Be the bliss of my trembling
like a tree’s leaves:
give a name, give a beautiful name
a pillow to this disintegration."
— János Pilinszky

I am black with love
neither boy nor nightingale
intact as a flower
I yearn without desire.

I arose amid violets
at the day’s first light,
sang a song forgotten
in the unchanging night.
I said to myself: “Narcissus!”
and a spirit with my face
darkened the grass
with the glow of his curls.

by Pier Paolo Pasolini

tanks are marching over my soul
bombs are dynamite for sight
it is unbearable
(if you can't ease)
the pain
the anger
the grief
helplessness and terror
they sculpture our souls
raising citadelles to dwell

I weep words for time not to freeze
it is cruelty that shuts down the mind

countless lives are played at the roulette
the geometry of power is mutilating everything
especially the birth of reality
my fragility like velvet
is soft to touch.
the trajectory of erratic steps,
the fragility and the strength of the world
are visible through bones of glass

hatred is a force that keeps the center spinning,
not turning into a black hole

we are close
the tyrant pushes himself on the brink
the naive world has fortgotten -
tanks are marching over
bodies carrying
the brightest of light -
the event-horizon
of death

in the depth of human tragedy
there is also this dillema
of tyranny
that either the truth or the lie
is going to crash the tyrant

they play reality games
and
the delusion will end in catastrophe
but
how much of the world is going to take with it?

spring is in a rush this year,
to affirm the rationality
of life

yes, the tyrant is ready
to destroy with thousands of arms
with thousands of eyes
with thousands of hearts
a denied collective crime after all
and the old circle of darkness about to complete
again
the worm of history is tattooing our dreams

unbearable the recipe of pain

no real tipping point
especially
no turning point
for any tyrant

wooden tongues speak non truths
to be fed by a tyrant freezes the rivers of the mind

being a tyrant is so simple, so natural in a world we've ceased to imagine

this tyrant like any other free
to toy with history as with plasticine
cause we/you/they are as ready as ever
to support him dynamite
the horizon
of time

we are here because of the trees
what about the climate of our mind?
too many versions of alternative realities
and we've killed the spirit of oceans
in our souls
our bones don't grow roots anymore

we exist because of the flowers
and we are dying in the most stylish way
wearing Dior mascara, high heels, oh,
the latest Zara shirt

we are here because of the bees
it's not to late to ask ourselves
what is the climate of our hearts?

death can be so
just so asymptotic with our obsessions
so asymbolic on golden shoulders
and climate just another
hollow word
sent to Mars

What is Poetry? Who knows?
Not the rose, but the scent of a rose;
Not  a sky, but the light in the sky;
Not the fly, but the gleam of the fly;
Not the sea, but the sound of the sea;
Not myself, but what makes me
See, hear, and feel something that prose
Cannot: and what it is, who knows?

by Eleanor Farjeon