Ode at the Tomb of the Unknown Lover
                
The white muslin shadows of the
curtains reveal no secret.
Behind the French-windows, the garden vegetates:
A perfect parking place for her Rolls-Royce.
Peace. Warm afternoon. Fresh peaches.
Tell me what you see, move your eyes,
"Red lips on the white carpet" - and
a shade of orange at the corners.
I saw her make-up as she was looking
at the painting, cold and distant - she wasn't even there -
Still naked, a few minutes later.
She lives in that painting, I know now.

She put her clothes on and left the room.
And every Rolls-Royce has its own parking place.

Empty bedroom. Two empty cups of tea. Cold sheets.
Helpless cushions on the floor. Cold sheets.

Two cats are playing chess in the middle of the room,
They are moving the pieces with a magnetic blink of eye.

She left the room to get some ice-cream from Antonio Fresco
and promised to return.

Who drinks the best chocolate in town?
What is the distance between Argentina and NY?
Who is the third cat that can play chess?
How many gardens has she visited?

I'm playing this question-game to pass the time,
Laid on the white carpet and waiting for her.
Mockingly, she used to call me "High-Fidelity".

Au, norii/Aïe les nuages/Ay, Las Nubes/Ouch the Clouds

et maintenant où sont les nuages blancs
qui ne savent pas rêver
qui ne peuvent pas voler, sans le vent du nord,
sans les coeurs des hommes.
(7.08. 2016)

There is an arrow, locked away
somewhere, silenced
My heart has felt it, its caress
True consolation of one's life
That arrow, buzzing vibrato
after so many windows of my soul,
will break your chest, will
strike you dead with no notice.

Everybody loves you, but me, madly in love with you

embraced in this tango, we burn, we glow, we whisper flames
Argentinian Variations taste like dark coffee in this pure night
you are the most beautiful, I am the usual smitten

stray cats imitate milongas in the garden, this June,
as if I expected all this unbearable happiness to last, this June,
as if the pomegranate blood of the sky will be the same tomorrow

I just need you to not let me go, not yet, not just yet,
before the Moon dies, before you close your eyes

The music has stopped, my darling, I read your lips
you are the most beautiful, I am the usual smitten

The waves into the distance measure passion,
with their soothing tempo
do not caress my hair, do not kiss me one last time, this is adieu

embraces like thin air vanish, clouds drink my love like rain
your shadow lingers above the sand, your body over mine
completely forgotten

you are the most beautiful, I am the usual smitten.

My heart just has sunk
into my espresso cup
It needs to be filled


morning Haiku

Blindfolded by love, I ran into you, when hope was gone
completely, gone for so long, but still waiting for something
to happen, as if listening to a deaf song,
as if I had been deaf and mute, but still feeling the pain,
the longing of hearing, speaking and singing again

You found me numb, deprived of life, inside a shell
feeling nothing but the sea, blue, soft, the velvety of death
lying on that couch

I'm home, I'm home, you said, in a whisper
that turned mirrors into dust
and then I saw you, blindfolded, in the cold,
carried away by waves to a distant shore,
unable to hear, to speak, or sing again

Between us the flame
Between us the water, intertwined like music and silence
like two bodies that once used to be one

I'm home, I'm home, you said, in a whisper,
but what is a whisper into a dead woman's ear?

golden threads this autumn bears
waves of thin despair at your iron door
Show Time, says Fosse, heart on the floor
when sunlit window gently flares

a crispy wind, a frivolous sunrise
oh, dance along, your fragile neck so white
Show Time, says Fosse, aglow with light
please, dance with me, and look into my eyes

golden threads this autumn bears
in every leaf, in every grain of dust
Show Time, says Fosse, it's my final lust
melancholy's dripping venom deadly glares.

"Autunno, se vuoi cogliere la frutta della mia anima, ti prego di non esaurire ancora il sole, il filo d'oro della vita, il filo d'oro della danza." - Gianluca Masi, known as the Dancing Alchemist, Firenze, the second half of the XVI-th century