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Gabriel Nov 2016
What makes you go on?

As a singer near your pianissimo?
As a runner near your halfway mark?
As graying hair near your dark, thin veil?

When you face cannons, naught but a swordsman on your horse, how do you charge headlong into the fray?

I can't help but be captivated, an observer seeing something surreal, like time flowing backward, or a fire cool to the touch.

I'm not another species... I am you, minus your enlightenment. So enlighten me.

How is it that, a vicious, peaceful rebel to your circumstances, you charge with a hearty call, you greet death as an old friend, you run harder than you ever had before?

How is it that when your pianissimo comes, you hold the fermata twice as long as you could with air alone?
Sam Edwards Dec 2012
A dream once was had-- for two to be equal,
For this is the land of the free,
Free for you; free for me.

Often we hide our faces, as if we were the ones shamed.
Instead of standing up with another,
Repelling awful names.

Silence has a power, often more than sound.
Silence tunes your true voice,
Silence shakes the ground.

Silence is the foe, when words need to be said.
Silence is the killer.
Silence marks the dead.

Young students go to school, all shades of different skin.
We all threw rocks and names,
Wanting equality was their sin.

Did it matter? Their race was who they were.
A few rose voices,
Others’ silences were fists furled.

What does it matter, of what color their skin?
Here comes another battle.
Here it comes again.

Silence is the foe, when words need to be said.
Silence is the killer.
Silence marks the dead.

If one was gay, would he not be a being?
Should you let others mock?
Does silence stop the grieving?

No, the pain is still there, still loud.
The silence is louder.
Silence is all around.

The names, the hate, all can be repressed.
Silence is the fermata.
Silence has the stress.

Silence is the foe, when words need to be said.
Silence is the killer.
Silence marks the dead.

What is the solution, to this lack of sound?
Simple.
Make it loud.

A word of hope, ringing upon new ears.
A word of sympathy,
Erasing all the fear.

A smile, a hug, a song, a dream,
All to be had,
All to be seen.

Shout against repression, against hate.
For we are all equal,
All the same final fate.

Silence is the foe, when words need to be said.
Silence is the killer.
Silence marks the dead.

Stand together, as one. Make the stand.
Stop silence, create music,
Ring it through the land.

With your words create harmony, create rhyme.
Create thirds and fifths,
Stronger than the flow of time.

Why must we stand alone? Aren’t we all brothers?
Did our ancestors fight?
Protecting our dear mother?

Hand in hand we’ll rise, voices speak as one.
Cruelness and evil gone,
Silence on the run.

Silence is the foe, when words need to be said.
Silence is the killer.
Silence marks the dead.

If we do not help each other, then who will assist?
Together we will rise,
Or fall together into the abyss.

Gay or straight, or be it black or white,
Whether you believe in god,
We’re all human, right?

We all feel, we all hear and see.
We can all make words,
We all breathe.

Silence is the foe, when words need to be said.
Silence is the killer.
Silence marks the dead.

So why must we be made different, called by our opinions or race?
Why must we be judged,
Simply by our face?

No more, I shout. No more the hate.
No more discrimination.
This is our fate.

No more injustice, social and the silence.
No more acts of anger.
No more senseless violence.

Let brothers protect brothers, let friends be friends,
For we are only human.
The same mortal end.

Let sisters love their sisters, let strangers be strangers no more.
For we are only human.
Our heart is our core.

Silence is the foe, when words need to be said.
Silence is the killer.
Silence marks the dead.

I will stand alone, if that is what it takes.
I will raise my voice,
Singing with quick haste.

I will be the difference, the smile to the weak.
I will help protect,
Helping shield the meek.

I will celebrate the differences, that make you and me.
I will turn the lock,
My voice will be the key.

Soon my friends will join, creating a choir of light,
Singing against the hate,
Harmonies strike the night.

Silence will not be my tool, silence is not my friend.
I will make my voice count.
I will make this hate end.

Silence is the foe, when words need to be said.
Silence is the killer.
Silence marks the dead.
Samuel Sep 2012
our house lights dim, a
hush spread thin as a whisper
caught on your tongue embraces
eyes, hearts, calls them closer

to the passionate vibration between
mind and string from my
girl across the world, it seems a
symphony of indelible impact,
vocalization
to sympathetic heart-drum as
I close my eyes

once more dreaming
for two hands in the dark
(hold this for as long as you like)
Star crossed lovers, were we
Passion burning bright
We took upon wings
It began to take flight

Wordless conversation
Your name on my breath
Macabre heart melodies
And the dance of death

My ultimate act of hope
An act of valor
Desolate tears
Adoration colored pallor

Acid dipped colloquy
Mind tires, succumbs
Angelic contradictions
Senses numbs

Whispers of footsteps
Paramours’ ceasefire
Blood spilled emotions
No longer my desire

Unwept severed promises
Hearts struggle to breathe
Disunite in same direction
Faceless anonymity
SH Jan 2012
my maestro, how do you -
with your baton - keep the
pulse of my heart aching
for the broad gestures your
open arms insinuate?

tell me wholly, how you -
with your hands - conjure
in me an anthem con brio,
then throw me subito doloroso
and even so, never losing
your scherzando.
Musical glossary:
1. con brio - with spirit
2. subito doloroso - suddenly pathetic
3. scherzando - playfulness
E. Pan May 2010
Go on, move your mouth and
attempt to introduce thoughts.

I'll just wait here because
the spaces in between is where everything

is said.
PF
djr Jun 2012
Well hello, all, I’m your maestro ceremonious
they call me Lokonious, purveyor of the odious
so sit back, relax, and celebrate the… atonalness?

A: Andante con fuoco
We’re goin’ a cappella so let me say first
your style’s ba-roke, now let’s get on with the verse
you’re all up in the scale with a falsetto pitch
hittin’ soprano like a castrato *****!
my mind is sharp, while you’re stuck outta key
my rhythm’s all natural, you can’t find a beat
you need some help ’cause you’re out on your own
find that ****** on a subway, the metro-nome

B: Allegro con brio
throw down the fermata and hold up a minute
your ****’s a cacophony, no way to spin it
and son, i ain’t broke, my style’s all classical
you just can’t register that my words are magical
I spit rhymes in fantasy, can’t you see that you’re beat?
And they thought an allegro was unfit for elegy

A: Moderato col legno
well as for your girl, it may sound corny
the ***** loves my brass ’cause she’s: oh so *****
dispel your illusion, i got one more
your girl’s like a crime show… easy to score

B: Allegretto grazioso
your intellect is minor and your insults are bassless
your composition’s hardly a harmony: graceless
your cymbalism’s trite, and your motif’s unknown
an unfocused opus full of dissonant drones

A: Affrettando agitato
get out my face with your unnatural rap
you spit cold air and your lyrics are flat
you’ve got no harm while my canon’s a gat
so work on your refrain, ‘fore I bust da cap-OOOHHHHH

B: Coda
pull your weak crap, ’cause you’re outta your mode
such imperfect rhymes that we’re calling a cod-a
no time for the fanfare, you’re trying my patience
an end to your requiem, bring out the cadence

So that’s their story, best not get involved
their fight’s an augmented fourth: difficult to resolve
Nigel Morgan Oct 2015
Café for Cats

Take your shoes off
and close the child-gate
we don’t want the cats
out in the street please
thank you : our cats
your pleasure their purrs
together
make for a blissful moment
in a hectic world
on this busy street
don’t leave without
taking a cat on your lap
stroking their pedigree fur
all for you and coffee too


Street Art

Prevalent in these parts
the impromptu sketch
the wildly alternative mark
on arches grand designs on
construction-site hoardings
and take this side of a building
here untouched by windows
a canvas blank of brick where
Gulliver’s sister lies gagged
and bound in a Lilliput house
her knees poking through
the upstairs floor


tokyobike

in pastel-green apricot-pink
a lithe machine of delicate frame
and slim-line wheels
would look well in the hall
and out on the street
if properly socked with
your oh so short skirt
the gym-honed thighs
the custom rucksack
tight on your back


Whirl of Leaves

The breath that blows
these notes across the page
the murmuration of fingers
against those resonant strings
up and down to and fro
on music’s path go
the flute and the harp
pursuing the ground
into the autumn air
chasing the wind
until . . .
at a passing wall
they are stilled
into motionless
their rise and swirl
emptied of breath
no more to blow
or pluck these dancing
murmuring
wind-driven notes
but into fermata’s
grasp    

(where despite
a futile final flurry
a long bar’s rest
takes hold
till Spring)


St Paul’s by Night

From across the river
an unexpected view
not just that gracious dome
but the building below
substantially whole complete
for once not hidden by proximity
or an errant developer’s whim
the progress to the great south door
unimpeded when we walked
the well-tempered bridge
as high on the lofty cranes
bright red stars guided
our journey home


Askam Square

In this London square
the trees hold still
as sculptures in
the nothing air
no breeze to animate
their leaves except
a steady gaze might catch
a gentle oscillation
here and there

La Maison vert foncé

So very green this perfect Hoxton house
it could be in a petite ville Française
incongruous here – but such a treasure
geranium-filled window boxes
lace curtained attic rooms
just-have-to-have-a-look inside and see
the dress-maker’s table the library of books
the posters artists’ prints and all
a purposeful lady sits typing at her desk
costume directions for a Pirandello play


Daughter

Last year she’d bought a boat on the river
this year she’s in New York for the week
Keeping tabs on daughters can be wearisome
you hope for hug and to hear that certain voice
see eyes that haven’t changed their depth
since a child when you marvelled at their colour
so - it seems you won’t be seeing her this time around
but she’ll be in touch when she gets back she says
and ‘we’ll talk’ . . . she says.

Urban Fox**

dogs don’t have such a brush of a tail
a flattened skull or triangle-like ears
one was about to cross our path
thought better of it and retreated
behind a bush content to wait
till we’d passed on by
I
writing just the other day
about the fox of Chinese lore
remembered this celestial dog
had nine tails, four legs and a golden coat
served the Palace of Sun and Moon
transcended both the yin and yang
mûre Sep 2012
The hollow of the cheek, rosy yet
Maplewood, quiet, yet stirring
breathless against the pale of the thigh
Eyes flicker in eighths upward touch secret blue
Hers is the downbeat of his coronary bolero
He, the maestro for her skyward glissando-
the unspoken, unbroken fermata
in the dying wash of sound
in the instant before the applause.
E Sep 2014
Old love letters paper the walls of my study.
Faded and peeling,
a few fall into the shadows
while most remain,
stubborn, insistent,
unyielding and unapologetic.

Oh, how the ink has begun to bleed!
To tattoo the dull, white paint in glimpses
between the letters,
as if I can hear their words
humming in a melody of minor chords.

I've stopped checking the mailbox,
full and lonely,
we are enemies.

Bookshelves surround me as well,
keepers of cluttered wisdom,
tomes of goodbyes, adieus,
and one or two apologies.

The stale air holds a minor chord--
the fermata of my early twenties
extends in a one significant pause:

You tell me,
We are not our history.
And then light the single match
illuminating
certain, brown eyes
and too much ruined papers.

Flames singe and curl the wallpaper
The fire sings over the sounds of my past.

We are alive in the crucible,
flames caressing my memories
now only in the fireplace
you have found in the corner.

Silent warmth and bare walls,
We sit down to write a new book,
bound in autumn leaves and cold rain,
and in a new handwriting,
You begin:
*We are alive in the crucible.
Marissa Wargo Jan 2011
Flowing blue and
Majestic purple flecked with a
Staccato of yellow, marked by the
Adagio of green and
Accented silver

Caesura.

Dolce is the rosa and lapis that
Crescendo into
Fortissimo red and a
Vivace of cerulean --

Sforzando of orange!

Decrescendo into emerald, a
Morendo into the dark
Grazioso, where rests a
Fermata of rainbow.

At least this is what I see
On the black and white
Sheet of paper.
For the musicians.
Waiting.

Swallowed by ochre sheets,
watching you
reveal the stars playing under your paper skin,

Outshining the ****** streetlights
peering through my
windowpane.

Calling
like sirens of melted viridian
from the shores of my doom.

Drifting,
(apparition? wraith? spirit?)
your halo of fire
splayed along my bed
Illuminated.

Moving
to the tempo
of telltale hearts
Conducting
an orchestra of motion
Strings and tendons stretched
Vibrating in harmony

Two frail bodies
Colliding
in the night, louder than
the most impressive percussion
Holding the last note on
a heavenly fermata
And the conductor never said stop.

Ringing
from the concert hall
bedroom like the sigh
sounded from a thousand
symphonic suns.
Fading
in the evanescent eruption.
The tendrils of night
Weaving
dread threads
into our heartstrings and
Plucking
their sour tune -
maiming our melody
and
hacking our harmony
til the piano
was but firewood
to an empty flame.
Copyright 2010 @ Tyler Ryan Rodriguez
Alex Higgins Mar 2015
Since you have already plucked my heart strings,
let us make music together.
Whisper to me at night,
in syllable serenades that I
will only half remember on waking.
Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me,
until my tongue can stand it no more
and I must speak in symphonies.
Touch me delicately,
tickle my ribs until they become piano keys,
and play them until they cry out
chords that spell your name.
Let your laughter be trills in our cadenzas.
Let the pop of your knee drive a march to my bed.
Let me run my fingers up your spine,
jumping vertebrae like octaves,
from your tip to your toes.
Let my every shuddered breath be but syncopation
to the bass drum of your heart.
Be quiet with me,
let us play in piano,
soft as silence or sleep.
Stay there, linger for as long as the fermata holds.
And then, let us raise our voices together,
glorious crescendos upon crescendos,
until at last we can build no longer, and
return together to the tonic.
Run your hands across my hips,
play my longing in liquid legato strokes,
effortless in your endeavors.
Touch me again.
Let our gasps play counterpoint
to the melodies of our moans.
Take what you will of me,
fill me with song,
write sheet music in my lungs,
so that every breath I draw
sings on its way out.
Purse your lips and kiss me like embouchure.
Give me every quaver, every semitone, every holy harmony.
Leave me buzzing vibrato,
kiss me con brio.
Let me caress your delicate curves,
as though you were a violin made flesh.
If my temperament be just, then play on.
And let us be of one form, sonata-allegro,
until we must be jazz.
And then we shall burn the world with passion,
with chords no one knows but us.
So, for the sake of recapitulation,
I must ask again:
let us make music together.
Elizabeth May 2012
The fanfare begins
The feet of 100 nervous graduates come together
Attentive to the music, an oral instruction book for their march to the stage
And you
In the mess of individuals stick out like a sore thumb in my eyes

Unwillingly, I service these instructions for you
Directed by the make of these processional blueprints

I rebel against the document in front of me
With symbols that speak of melodies, harmonies, and chords



Slow the tempo
Stretch the fermata's
Refrain from that horrid second ending, which proclaims your childhood

Fine

Save me, Mr. Conductor, from the Recessional, where we say
Goodbye
And you exit to the parking lot
While I exit to the band room, which will no longer consist of our jokes and laughter
Rather silence and empty moments that should have been filled with smiles and conversation
Conversation shared between two friends
A friendship that died in a gym
A friendship that died because of me
My trumpeter friend who is graduating this year
Lauren Connolly Feb 2021
I bend
and you extend,
collarbones to the ceiling.
Beads of sweat glisten
and the whole world watches.

Vinyl catching fire
beneath the curling and scuffing
of our toes.
Struggling against each other
to gain control.

You leap out of reach
and I am distorted,
left alone to face piano trills
and nameless faces.
I grasp blindly but of course
you find me,
trapping me in the fermata.

I break free and spin for the wings
but you ****** my slender wrist.
My veins bulge as the music turns desperate,
a spattering of minor chords
as my heart breaks,
and a major longing emerges.

A lift to the heavens and I taste the sun
again were in sync.
Wrists sprained and lungs deflated
we continue this endless waltz
for the rest
of
time.
Nun songo nu grand'ommo
nun songo nu scienziato.
'A scola nun sò gghiuto
nisciuno m'ha mannato.
S' i' songo intelliggente?
e m' 'o spiate a mme?
I' songo nato a Napule,
che ne pozzo sapè?!
Appartengo alla *****...
a chella folla 'e ggente
ca nun capisce proprio 'o riesto 'e niente.
Però ve pozzo dicere na cosa:
campanno notte e ghiuomo a stu paese
pur i' me sò 'mparato quacche cosa,
quaccosa ca se chiamma umanità.
Senza sapè nè leggere e nè scrivere,
da onesto cittadino anarfabbeta,
ve pozzo parlà 'ncopp' a n' argomento
ca certamente ve pò interessà: chi è ll'ommo.
Ll'ommo è nu pupazzo 'e carne
cu sango e cu cervello
ca primma 'e venì al mondo
(cioè 'ncopp' a sta terra)
madre natura, ca è sempre priviggente,
l'ha miso 'nfunno 'a ll'anema,
cusuto dint'o core, na vurzella
cu dinto tante e tante pupazzielle
che saccio: 'o mariuncello,
na strega 'e Beneviento,
nu scienziatiello atomico
cu a faccia indisponente,
nu bello Capo 'e Stato
vestuto 'a Pulcinella;
curtielle, accette, strummolo
e quacche sciabbulella.
Penzanno ca 'o pupazzo
nu juomo se fa ommo,
si se vò divertì,
chesto 'o ppò fà. E comme?
Sceglienno 'a dint' 'o mazzo
ca tene dint' 'a vurzella,
chello ca cchiù lle piace
fra tutte 'e pazzielle.
Si po' sentite 'e dicere:
"'O tale hanno arrestato!
Era uno senza scrupolo:
pazziava al peculato.
E trene nun camminano?
'A posta s'he fermata?".
Chi tene 'mmano 'o strummolo,
pazzianno s'he spassato.
'O scienziatiello atomico
ch' 'a bomba 'a tena stretta
"Madonna! - tremma 'o popolo-
E si mo chisto 'a jetta?".
Guardate che disgrazia
si 'a sciabbulella afferra
nu capo ca è lunatico:
te fa scuppià na guerra.
Senza penzà ca 'o popolo:
mamme, mugliere e figlie,
chiagneno a tante 'e lacreme.
Distrutte sò 'e famiglie!
A sti pupazze 'e carne affocaggente
l'avessame educà cu 'o manganiello,
oppure, la natura priviggente,
avess' 'a fa turnà nu Masaniello.
Ma 'e ccose no... nun cagnano
e v' 'o dich'i' 'o pecché:
nuie simme tanta pecure...
facimmo sempe "mbee".
Margaret Apr 2014
Poetry Is Beautiful
Poetry is a painting.
        Your canvas, your paper.
Your pen is your brush.
        Each word a pigment
When blending pigments in sentences
It can create beautiful things.
        People have trouble sharing them.
Because art is personal
It is a part of them that they do not want judged.
It is honest.
        Which is beautiful
And raw
        And is not always perfect.
Which is beautiful.
Poetry is music.
Each note tells a story,
Every crescendo
        A word
                                STRESS
Each pianissimo a whisper.
        The fermata, the lines
The tempo the rhyme
        Music is beautiful.
Poetry is music.
Poetry is you.
                        YOU are beautiful.
Poetry is beautiful.
Like poems,
                You are are criticized.
And looked at up and down
                        By greedy eyes.
People search for meaning in you.
                        You, like poetry
                are complex and different.
and people have different opinions on you.
Like Poetry, some do not get you.
                                Some do not understand you.
And others have a great appreciation for you.        
        Which is beautiful.
                
I am poetry.
        I am different.
People judge me too.
From the curve of my thigh
        To the shape of my hips
To the swing of my walk
To the length of my lines and stanzas.
You are poetry. I am poetry. Music is poetry.
        Poetry is beautiful.
Poetry is the earth.
From the burn of the sunset
                to the ache of the old willow tree
To the rusty croak of the toad
The golden fields of wheat,
To the mountains.
         Confident and strong.
        Which are beautiful.
The earth is beautiful.
Poetry is the world.
It is yours,
        It is mine.
Like the world
It is yours.
it is mine.
        People have trouble sharing them.
Which is not good
for anyone,
But like the world, poetry can be beautiful if shared.
Poetry is beautiful
Poetry is us.
It is everything.
Poetry is beautiful.
        
p        o        e        t        r        y
IS
bEaUtIfUL.
What is this website for? Poetry. What is poetry? Everyone has their own definition. Mine is above. And to me poetry makes life bearable.
Eleanor Sinclair Apr 2018
You play a perfect harmony to the music of my soul
In 4/4 time the last measure is our goal
You conduct me along with the swift movements of your bow
Sweat collects on your prominent brow as you hit the note a little too low
Andante to vivace my heart rushes to tempo
We hold our fermata embracing the moment, slow
The notes sit on the page while my thoughts dance with the rhythm
They leap and they frolic to the sounds of the broken hymn
A little sharp, maybe flat
Our pulses quicken assai, as though Haydn intended that
Like the Baroque Era wrote for us and our meetings in private
Our handshakes that last long and our glances that are silent
But it won’t last and we will face the caesura of our love
It transpires as we ignore the baton waving above
Our duet will end as it started, quickly, like the flight of a dove
Le Carnaval Des Animaux replicates my scrambled mind
No matter how hard I search, the answers I cannot find
In hectic chaos I’m blind to the clearest option staring straight at me
A simple kiss will suffice in helping me see
For to be the maestro I must know every part
Feel each chord progression and triad deep down in my heart
A kiss will answer if these feelings are true
Or if because of my dreams I have sudden interest in you
Whether the moment is a roar of fortissimo glory
Or it is a disappointing sforzando into the diminuendo of our story
Do you feel a crescendo when our eyes meet for a second?
Like we’re calling each other closer and with each blink we’ve beckoned
One another to draw in the coda finale
Together we may join and our notes, they will rally
By the last bar they’re in unison and our cadence is clear
The next movement will begin, there is nothing to fear
Tyler Stoner Dec 2020
My body aches - beating my brain, I yearn for rest.
The work needs done. I cannot sleep until I rest.

That sleep - that nodding off that interrupts the song
while silence plays; a long fermata on a rest.

Awake and you’ll be deaf to what you’ve missed,
but open your ears and you’ll appreciate the rest.

I wish we could be present while we slept,
so we never had to miss a single click of rest,

until the very end. When the players play their loudest
even if they’re resting, a long eternal rest.

For the music doesn’t start until you’ve given
pause— to the contents of your mind. Let yourself rest,

and listen to the universe and its crashing chords;
echoing in that quietness, speaking through that rest.

And as I ache, I, Tyler, look towards playing that final
performance – one that’s sure to give me rest.
Lyda M Sourne Feb 2018
He could see the notes.

The colors they leave behind,
The presence of their warmth.

They danced before his eyes,
Whispering their sweet melodies.

Laughter underneath his fingers,
Coaxing them out from their hiding place.

Music was his muse
In the ungodly hours of the night.

She danced with him under the moonlight.

Her voice a soothing lullaby
Quieted the demons in his mind.

And yet

the voices were
too loud.

Fear took hold of
his gut.

Guilt tripped him in
his feet.

He begged Darkness

"Leave me alone."

Shadows wrapped around
his wrists.

Music grew quiet.

Silence reigned
like fermata
on an
indefinite rest.

He closed his eyes.
He covered his ears.
He shut the lid.

The music stopped.
A musician without music is as good as dead
Vyiirt'aan Nov 2017
A cacophony of sound
Muster no wavelengths too abundant
For a master of space
Designs time to their own will

Short notes,
l o n g t o n e s

All resolve by a single



click



Strings
      snapping


HORN sounds


|Bars| and
-beats-
are

c
a
  s
   c
    a
     d
      i
       n
        g



Deteriorating phrases
accumulate to a white noise

I direct and guide

my symphony

to
the
last






note













fermata
Welcome, welcome! Plese do enjoy - my masterpiece
Vyiirt'aan Nov 2017
Revenant vibrato
Amongst vivid spiccato
A droning tenuto
Amongst the chaos in presto

The pages show alla breve
Poco rubato, primo tempo
Agitato con fuoco
And con repetizione
To dal Segno we go

Add a Capo
Presto spiritoso
Clash straight into
Fermata

Fine
Nun songo nu grand'ommo
nun songo nu scienziato.
'A scola nun sò gghiuto
nisciuno m'ha mannato.
S' i' songo intelliggente?
e m' 'o spiate a mme?
I' songo nato a Napule,
che ne pozzo sapè?!
Appartengo alla *****...
a chella folla 'e ggente
ca nun capisce proprio 'o riesto 'e niente.
Però ve pozzo dicere na cosa:
campanno notte e ghiuomo a stu paese
pur i' me sò 'mparato quacche cosa,
quaccosa ca se chiamma umanità.
Senza sapè nè leggere e nè scrivere,
da onesto cittadino anarfabbeta,
ve pozzo parlà 'ncopp' a n' argomento
ca certamente ve pò interessà: chi è ll'ommo.
Ll'ommo è nu pupazzo 'e carne
cu sango e cu cervello
ca primma 'e venì al mondo
(cioè 'ncopp' a sta terra)
madre natura, ca è sempre priviggente,
l'ha miso 'nfunno 'a ll'anema,
cusuto dint'o core, na vurzella
cu dinto tante e tante pupazzielle
che saccio: 'o mariuncello,
na strega 'e Beneviento,
nu scienziatiello atomico
cu a faccia indisponente,
nu bello Capo 'e Stato
vestuto 'a Pulcinella;
curtielle, accette, strummolo
e quacche sciabbulella.
Penzanno ca 'o pupazzo
nu juomo se fa ommo,
si se vò divertì,
chesto 'o ppò fà. E comme?
Sceglienno 'a dint' 'o mazzo
ca tene dint' 'a vurzella,
chello ca cchiù lle piace
fra tutte 'e pazzielle.
Si po' sentite 'e dicere:
"'O tale hanno arrestato!
Era uno senza scrupolo:
pazziava al peculato.
E trene nun camminano?
'A posta s'he fermata?".
Chi tene 'mmano 'o strummolo,
pazzianno s'he spassato.
'O scienziatiello atomico
ch' 'a bomba 'a tena stretta
"Madonna! - tremma 'o popolo-
E si mo chisto 'a jetta?".
Guardate che disgrazia
si 'a sciabbulella afferra
nu capo ca è lunatico:
te fa scuppià na guerra.
Senza penzà ca 'o popolo:
mamme, mugliere e figlie,
chiagneno a tante 'e lacreme.
Distrutte sò 'e famiglie!
A sti pupazze 'e carne affocaggente
l'avessame educà cu 'o manganiello,
oppure, la natura priviggente,
avess' 'a fa turnà nu Masaniello.
Ma 'e ccose no... nun cagnano
e v' 'o dich'i' 'o pecché:
nuie simme tanta pecure...
facimmo sempe "mbee".
Nun songo nu grand'ommo
nun songo nu scienziato.
'A scola nun sò gghiuto
nisciuno m'ha mannato.
S' i' songo intelliggente?
e m' 'o spiate a mme?
I' songo nato a Napule,
che ne pozzo sapè?!
Appartengo alla *****...
a chella folla 'e ggente
ca nun capisce proprio 'o riesto 'e niente.
Però ve pozzo dicere na cosa:
campanno notte e ghiuomo a stu paese
pur i' me sò 'mparato quacche cosa,
quaccosa ca se chiamma umanità.
Senza sapè nè leggere e nè scrivere,
da onesto cittadino anarfabbeta,
ve pozzo parlà 'ncopp' a n' argomento
ca certamente ve pò interessà: chi è ll'ommo.
Ll'ommo è nu pupazzo 'e carne
cu sango e cu cervello
ca primma 'e venì al mondo
(cioè 'ncopp' a sta terra)
madre natura, ca è sempre priviggente,
l'ha miso 'nfunno 'a ll'anema,
cusuto dint'o core, na vurzella
cu dinto tante e tante pupazzielle
che saccio: 'o mariuncello,
na strega 'e Beneviento,
nu scienziatiello atomico
cu a faccia indisponente,
nu bello Capo 'e Stato
vestuto 'a Pulcinella;
curtielle, accette, strummolo
e quacche sciabbulella.
Penzanno ca 'o pupazzo
nu juomo se fa ommo,
si se vò divertì,
chesto 'o ppò fà. E comme?
Sceglienno 'a dint' 'o mazzo
ca tene dint' 'a vurzella,
chello ca cchiù lle piace
fra tutte 'e pazzielle.
Si po' sentite 'e dicere:
"'O tale hanno arrestato!
Era uno senza scrupolo:
pazziava al peculato.
E trene nun camminano?
'A posta s'he fermata?".
Chi tene 'mmano 'o strummolo,
pazzianno s'he spassato.
'O scienziatiello atomico
ch' 'a bomba 'a tena stretta
"Madonna! - tremma 'o popolo-
E si mo chisto 'a jetta?".
Guardate che disgrazia
si 'a sciabbulella afferra
nu capo ca è lunatico:
te fa scuppià na guerra.
Senza penzà ca 'o popolo:
mamme, mugliere e figlie,
chiagneno a tante 'e lacreme.
Distrutte sò 'e famiglie!
A sti pupazze 'e carne affocaggente
l'avessame educà cu 'o manganiello,
oppure, la natura priviggente,
avess' 'a fa turnà nu Masaniello.
Ma 'e ccose no... nun cagnano
e v' 'o dich'i' 'o pecché:
nuie simme tanta pecure...
facimmo sempe "mbee".
The half moon, a fermata
somnolent and frozen,
marks a pause and splits
the midnight harmony.

Blanketed in sedge,
the ditches protest mutely,
and frogs, the muezzins of shadow,
have fallen silent.

In the old town tavern
the sad music stopped,
and the oldest of stars
has damped its hurdy-gurdy.

The wind has settled
in dark mountain hollows,
and a solitary poplar,
Pythagoras of chaste plains,
wants to lift up its hundred-year-old hand
and slap the moon in the face.

— The End —