Life often tells us fairy tales
to distract us from its rushing too fast to grasp it.

The Rose teaches
how to wither gracefully
and die by falling
slowly
to the ground.

As if withered
you sit around the table of silence.
Gem that has no color,
you pass like the time of boredom.
And you are no more than a memory.

A gloomy sky
falls to the offended earth.
Boredom sews a bitter fabric.
We are but shadows
under a bad moon.
I would like to learn a new prayer,
a breath,
that gives me life again.
Finally.

Harsh words rot in my throat.

Whether I pronounce them or not
I know
that a bad wind will sooner or later bring them
as a bitter gift to your bed of hate.

Mother,
you are the pain
that has no end.
I have your eyes in mine,
your smile is in every smile
that life tears from me.

I hear your words
playing in the air,
happy harp,
and vibrate waves
of ancient joy.
Whenever it flows
the water you drank,
every time it blows
the wind that passed in your hair,
whenever the earth
generates new seeds
like those that you
cultivated for me,
I hear yout words.
And I breathe your face.

My pain is clay,
and I transform it
into a living flower.
For you.

If a seed crossed
your nocturnal eyes
now
it would look in vain
for a womb
to grow

Like a spider
the wind
weaves
the web
of air.

I can not understand.
Someone ploughs the land,
others
throw hatred on it.
Like water.

Among so many noises
I prefer
the sound of the petal
caressing the earth.

The sky today stretches lazily
between pillows of soft clouds.
Sleep, and forget the stubborn bits of storm
in your eyes.

Winter flower,
jealous secret of the earth,
holes the soul of the world
and smile
with the frozen petals of love.

I am an empty helmet,
in the room of memories.
I protect the nothing and alive
but, to sing, I have only
the beating of an airless throat

It is  not easy to clean the soul of dross,
it is not easy
even if you know that soon time will deposit many others,
finer and harder,
like the memory of what we were.