my heart
like a small drunk boat
between two coves  
with no oars,
like the the top of a match stick  
ready to be lit

my heart
like a bustard
wandering on the mine fields of regrets,
like  seagulls
lost on the fingers of
a fool poet

my heart
either will get lost on these flows
or resurrect on these ebbs

poems like no words
is my heart

a black hand seller in mercato ballaro
with a fake-gold cross  on his neck, proud on his face,
and grief on his back.
his proud is not because of his fake-gold cross
he takes for the Jesus ,swinging on his neck,
he landed from the sky
unlocks all the doors

a black hand seller in mercato ballaro
cannot forget some of 6200 black eyes
drowned
in the Mediterranean sea
and cannot say
the Mediterranean sea is not more beautiful
than 6200  black eyes
cannot say
no sea is more beautiful than 6200 eyes

and
it is useless to love dumb prophets
on the blind-windows of your souls
which not open out to us

Like the delirious rivers in spring
I am drowning in the arms of  lilacs
and enjoying the purple dawns,
lavander happiness.

Snowdrops!
no need to be ashamed anymore.
I drink bottled dreams of eternity,
as suicide-bomber butterflies stir my veins.