The wind rushes through small places,
and the trees do not break when they are like the wind also,
sweet the peace that kisses the moon,
right back to the earth her light silver freely caresses the water and in the month of march i see,
such deep longing and the longing is also free.
I dreamed i saw the birds all left and flew away
and the bees they kissed
and died and when i found my key to life i found also the lies. People sit with teachers who tell they all kinds of truth but the real learning in the schools comes from knowing its all untruth, little glimmers of hope offer more dependancy and less might, it is like the starving of a child in the bright scorched out desert at night,
they die ,
we die over
and over as witness.
Flowers do not weep they simply grow more when they are ignored,
and sun rays dance upon waters when no one is looking ,
they are never bored.
I'd like to show you the magic times and sing to you at night , so we maybe can have some freedom in a world that seems to blight,
blight the sensitive,
flight the kind and blight the wild and open minds.
I had a radio once but when i tuned it in nothing came only angry voices,
now it plays sweet music all through the evening
it is like a soft deeply spoken mother humming inside a little box.
Sparkling days remind me of earth shattering quakes glassing ,
But I am not afraid to die,
only how it may happen .
I wonder where little Nino goes now ,
a wandering through Falerone groves,
Olive leaves glistening in the springtime air
and Franky all alone.
Valentine will you wait for me
I promise to bring back your Son
But when he returns he will be a man now.
All handsome and wild like heather and wind.
His curls shining in the sun.
it is kind to the fair ones,
it burns so sweetly and mild
it warms the skin
and fills the eyes with images
and sea pines
and rolling stories on waves from the Adriatic .
Oh i shall not forget three Italia
the mountain walks
who taught me so much
England is beautiful in its own right
but there are rows and rows of horrible Terrace houses
I never want to mention it.
It makes me want to run,
run to the trees in Fonte Morello
taste the waters
~Poet Ella May