Nevica a Parigi
sugli alberi di carta,
sugli addobbi di Natale sgonfi,
sui bambini di plastica
e sui castelli di latta.

Nevica a Parigi una neve fiacca
che s’incolla ai cappotti della gente
che si trascina per strada
con aria distratta.

Nevica nei caffè,
attraverso i vetri,
sui boulevards deserti
e sui nostri sguardi tetri.

Si colorano di bianco
la cupola dell’albergo di lusso,
il tettuccio dell’edicola senza giornali,
il carretto delle castagne arrosto,
il marciapiede su cui scivola una dama
e cerca un cantuccio il barbone.

Nevica a Parigi, senza ragione,
sulle donne e sugli uomini.



Nevica nei grandi magazzini,
nelle chiese vuote
e nelle nostre stanze.
Sulle autostrade inondate di fango
che corrono sopra la città,
sulle scarpate coperte d’immondizia
e sulle nostre frasi lasciate a metà.

Nevica a Parigi sulla terra
del parco in cui non attecchirà
più l’erba, sulla nostra visione
acerba delle cose.
Nevica a Parigi come per illusione.



Nevica perché non ha
nessun senso che nevichi,
perché siamo in inverno
ma non è detto che torni
il bel tempo.

Nevica sul cemento
di chi ha avuto il coraggio
di costruire i grattacieli per i grandi
e le cabine di comando
per gli uomini d’affari
dagli occhi stanchi.



Nevica sui ghetti e sulle città satelliti,
sulle lampade al neon
dei luna park abbandonati.
Nevica, in televisione e al cinema,
per i negri, i bianchi,
le persone sole e gli alcolizzati.

Nevica e le cose si perdono
in un pulviscolo.
Da un vicolo sbuca
un autobus senza autista,
da un altro una carrozza
trainata da elefanti.
In un carosello di fiocchi di neve
impazziscono le immagini.

Nevica a Parigi sui camposanti.



Nevica nei bordelli e nelle bettole,
nei salotti alla moda,
nei negozi degli antiquari
e nei quadri che i pittori
non hanno fatto a tempo
a terminare…

Nevica sugli operai stanchi
di non lavorare,
sulle matrone che si abbandonano
alle braccia dei drogati.
Nevica sugli ospedali e sugli ammalati.



Nevica sugli aeroplani e sulla notte,
sulle navi e sul vento,
sull’eco delle stragi,
sul pianto dei feriti
e sul rantolo dei moribondi.

Nevica a Parigi
sul tempo che finisce
in un’esplosione di secondi.



Nevica sulla neve
e nevicherà ancora.
E’ una neve che a tratti ci sferza
e a tratti ci ignora.
E’ una neve che spazza via tutto,
una neve spietata.
Perché a Parigi da oggi nevica
nella nostra mente annebbiata.

they said they did it for efficiency's sake.
birthed machine after machine,
just to increase the rate
                                  per
                                 time.
no god-given talent or skill,
can defeat this adaptive assembly line.

no man-     P
no fire-         O
no brain-       W
no super-     E
no will-      R

it's flawless at first glance, and maybe even second.
simply perfect to the naked eye; even the telescoped, i reckon.
but under a microscope, it becomes simple to see,
this single-purposed way of life isn't human; how can it be?

just like control + C, control + V,

i believe they've synchronized simplicity.
  believe they've synchronized simplicity.
                they've synchronized simplicity.
                              synchronized simplicity.
                                                     ­  simplicity.
                                                     ­                   .
                                                                ­        .yticilpmis
                                             ­                           .yticilpmis dezinorhcnys
                                                    ­                    .yticilpmis dezinorhcnys ev'yeht
                                                         ­               .yticilpmis dezinorhcnys ev'yeht eveileb
                                                         ­               .yticilpmis dezinorhcnys ev'yeht eveileb i

                                                              ­                         ,V + lortnoc ,C + lortnoc ekil tsuj

                                        ?eb ti nac woh ;namuh t’nsi efil fo yaw desoprup-elgnis siht
                                                          ,e­es ot elpmis semoceb ti .epocsorcim a rednu tub
                                    .nokcer i ,depocselet eht neve ;eye dekan eht ot tcefrep ylpmis
                                                       .dnoces neve ebyam dna ,ecnalg tsrif ta sselwalf s’ti

                                                           ­                                                                R      -lliw on
                                                              ­                                                           E     -repus on
                                                              ­                                                        W       -niarb on
                                                              ­                                                          O      ­   -erif on
                                                              ­                                                             P     -nam on

                                                             ­                .enil ylbmessa evitpada siht taefed nac
                                                             ­                                   ,lliks ro tnelat nevig-dog on
                                                              ­                                        .emit                    ­                  
                                              ­                                                          rep    ­                              
                                  ­                                                                 ­     etar eht esaercni ot tsuj
                                                            ­                              ,enihcam retfa enihcam dehtrib
                                                         ­                .ekas s’ycneiciffe rof ti did yeht dias yeht

Going down to Festival Park, just to see the sights

Neve know what you might see, It changes every night

Buskers, dancers, singers too, kids with faces painted

Pickpockets, con men and others who, live life by methods tainted

A hundred years ago or so the park was then donated

The family Billings, gave the land and their lovely gift was feted

Every year a party held in honour of the Billings

Until that time in fifty one, when the town had all those killings

No one in the town that year was safe while he was out there

He didn't pick just one set type, he didn't seem to care

Couples parked in cars at night at the far end of the park

It wasn't a safe place to be, especially after dark

Two men were found with bullet wounds, dead upon a bench

The Wylie boy was found because a dog had liked the stench

Yourng Tommy Wylie, 12 years old, was found behind the boat shed

The only thing to tie his case was the bullet in the head

The park though nice in daylight, at night became a veldt

Everyone was scared to death, that;s the way the whole town felt

A young man by the cenothaph and two more by the lake

The police had no clear suspect, they needed a mistake

The party at the park was stopped and other functions too

For the killer could be from this town, and who nobody knew

Eleven deaths in that dark summer put the town upon the map

Tourists would not visit, they would not come to his trap

The police were inundated with phone calls far and wide

People turning in everyone and making others hide

A task force was assembled, 30 cops from out of state

They had to find this killer before it was too late

While they interviewed the suspects the park had no events

You could go on through in daytime, but it still made one feel tense

The city added lighting to walkways and no luck

The only thing it added was taxes went up a buck

No other killings happened until that one in sixty two

It was just like all the others, so they thought that they knew who

Was back in town gone hunting, but there only was that one

A young man in his rambler, sitting drinking in the sun

The task force was abandoned back in fifty five

But after this last ******, they called back only five

This time it would be different, this time they'd get their man

Technolgy had changed alot, he'd be caught before he ran

A shell casing was found beside the wall down by the bridge

And it had a print upon it, they identified the ridge

Years ago they'd interviewed about three hundred men

But with this single ridge print, it was narrowed down to ten

Eight were dead and one left town, so with only one to find

A dragnet and a takedown plan were carefully designed

They knew that he'd be running if they called him back to talk

And they couldn't risk to lose him, or their whole case would walk

So with some misinformation printed in a column in the post

They hoped they flush their suspect, the one they wanted most

They said they'd made the capture, confessing every crime

They would take away his thunder, dropping hints on every crime

But, they would omit one last case, the one he started with

For this was information that they wanted him to give

It worked, he dropped a letter to the paper that same week

Threatening to strike again, and the first case he did leak

In his anger and his hurry he would leave another clue

They found another print to help them out and with this they had two

They swooped in and arrested a man of no abode

He lived in city missions he had no moral code

His capture freed the city from the monster in the park

It was now a place where you could go, and feel safe after dark

The festival committee for the city planned a fete

The victims of this monster, their lives they'd celebrate

A monument to those who died would be erected in their honor

And the whole thing would be organized by the Mayor...Mayor John B Connor

The names were read of each victim and then two minutes silence reigned

And a wreath for every family involved, these then were laid

New trees were planted for them all in a corner near a wall

And the park would schedule new events and brand new festivals

But, every year on this same day, on the tenth day of month ten

They would hold a special service for these women and these men

The park was now a joyous place, like it was meant to be

And if you're there, out by the wall...then you just might locate me.
.

in this other side air took other color forms
emphasizing details, scanning asymptotes, like hearts
burning on pristine snow, of winter coming
in october already, even in the sun, in the sun above all, almost
red, like the air that took your form, hiding
walls and faces, of concealed rooms you make insomniac
and abruptly clear away, as you pour them in sealess salt

——————————————
Italian version from “Chieti, Scalo”, 2014:

asintoti obliqui

in quest’altra parte l’aria prese altre forme di colore,
insistendo sui dettagli, scandendo asintoti, come cuori
bruciati sulla precocissima neve, dell’inverno che viene
già di ottobre, anche nel sole, soprattutto nel sole, quasi
rosso, come l’aria che ha preso forma di te, celando
volti e pareti, di segrete stanze che componi insonne
e sparecchi di colpo, versandole in un sale senza mari

Gram had an old piano
It sat in the front room
There was a scorch mark on the top
Made by a cigar from the past
It always sat there silent
I never ever saw it played
But, I heard of all the parties
And the music from gram
She told us kids "don't touch it"
"Just leave it all alone"
So, we left it like she told us
We did as we were told
Even though we'd heard the stories
Of the music and the parties
And the fun that used to be
We watched as Gram would sit
Close her eyes, and fade out
To the parties and the music
And the good times of the past
She'd leave us to our own devices
Of which one, was not the piano
She told us it had been there
Since about nineteen sixty four
And to me, that's a long time
Especially for a piano to not be played
It had to be out of tune by now
But, we'd neve know
She'd tell us of the parties
How the neighbors would drop by
How the music would be lively
Then, she'd fade off once again
Back to the parties and the past
There were mice living in the piano
At least if not now, there once were
You could see droppings in the corner
And the scratches by the pedals
But, we never saw the mice
I guess they knew the piano was out of bounds too
As we got older and time passed by
We wouldn't go to Grams place as much
And she never moved the piano
We would still hear the stories
Either on the phone or during the visits
Both were more infrequent as we all aged
We knew she'd fade off
Sometimes during our chats on the phone
Sometimes during our visits
Back to the past
To the parties and the music
Gram passed last year
While she was sitting in her chair
She went to the past
And stayed there while I was making tea
I ended up with the piano
I can't play, not that I ever would
None of the other could either
But, I was the oldest
Now, every so often, I'll fade out
Back to the stories of the parties
That I never went to
And I think about the music
That I never heard
But, I remember how she said it was
How it must have sounded
The fun they had
The fun she was reliving
Grams piano sits in my house now
In the hall never played
It sits with its memories
Announcing what we all had missed
It sits, silent, and it's me who shares the tales
To all who will listen when they visit
I got Grams piano and I didn't get the mice

Lenta la neve fiocca, fiocca, fiocca.
Senti: una zana dondola piano piano.
Un ***** piange, il piccol dito in bocca;
Canta una vecchia, il mento sulla mano.
La vecchia canta: intorno al tuo lettino
C'è rose e gigli, tutto un bel giardino.
Nei bel giardino il ***** si addormenta
La neve fiocca lenta, lenta, lenta.

A flor colorida

Não te dou sandálias para caminhar,
Suspiros de embalar,
Horizonte sempre apaixonado,
Afecto bem guardado.



Ai a neve branca da montanha,
Carinho nobre e desmedido,
Amor descomprometido,
Desejo rejuvenescido.


Caminhar sobre o mar,
Barquinho com velas sem navegar,
Amor eterno como o paraíso,
Dar um beijo, um sorriso.


O céu está estrelado,
Carícias do passado,
Primavera sempre envaidecida,
Flor florida….

Victor Marques

Santa Maria La Longa, 26 gennaio 1916

Vorrei imitare
questo paese
adagiato
nel suo camice
di neve.

A flor colorida


Não te prometo sandálias para caminhar,
Dou-te beijos de embalar.
Horizonte estonteante, apaixonado,
Afecto bem guardado.


Não te prometo a neve da montanha,
Carinho desmedido.
Um amor comprometido,
Desejo e amor rejuvenescido.


Não te prometo o céu e o mar,
Barco para navegar.
O eterno luar tem paraíso,
Um beijo, um sorriso.


Não te prometo um céu estrelado,
Carícias em qualquer lado.
Primavera envaidecida,
Flor florida.

Cordiais Cumprimentos.
Victor Marques

A plucked and crushed flower
Emits the fragrance
and goes to the last mile
With a smiling and dashing face
At last!
It leaves rosy scars, behind.
As the victims do
With the message
"Do and Die for others"
"As the inner soul of a good one is always the good"
"There is no change coming
whether you oppose or appreciate
"As tears often turn into morning dews
and the morning star is the witness
The message chases the killer till his last breath
In such a way
When one conceives and feels
Neve can forgive his self
"As the impossible task in the world is
Forgiving own self."

I'd write you every second in this life that I have lived
you're present in my thoughts much more than I have ever been
With all of these illusions and the subtleties I see
I found you in the presence of the things that I believe
you struck me as a question I had never thought to ask
and left me with a longing for tomorrows that have passed
It doesn't make much sense, today is crippling my head
but what is this existence if you're gone, asleep or dead
I'm only ever sorry for the words I did not say
afraid of what they'd do because I couldn't get away
I kept you in a corner til you learned to disappear
and I would go in search of you to see if you were near
But keeping up your distance, I could only take a chance
for none of this resembles the extent of our romance
I'd put you in my pocket or forget that you were there
we could have been together but I lost you in a stare

What Is this?
I didn't even say goodbye
I never wanted you to leave
I never wanted to let go
but you'll live on in memor**y

there are no words
for the way my ski
n electrifies when y
our smoke wraps ar
ound our bodies and
sends shivers down m
y spine because you a
re trickling your finge
rs down my ribs and s
ometimes i can not hel
p but think about how
blood felt trickling dow
n my wrists and by the
time you came around
i was so far gone that i
'm more than surprised
about how someone wh
ose smile is always six m
iles wide could love some
one who wants to be bur
ied six feet under and if i
lost the chance to tell you
that i love you, then i don
;t know where i would be
and if i make my bed in a
grave before you do i hop
e you never pick up the bo
ttle again and try to find s
olace because we both kno
w that anesthetics are neve
r any different from poison
s and if your nerve endings
remember my touch and y
our breath gets short but h
eavy when you think you j
ust got a text from me but
you remember that the te
xt will never come; i want y
ou to know that i love yo
u and that you can make it
through anything and if yo
u do just one thing in my r
emembrance then i want y
ou to never ******* drink
my taste away because no
matter how strong you se
em i still think that my p
assing will make you a lit
tle uneasy and a little diff
erent maybe and i wonde
r if you'll cry anywhere c
lose to as much as i used t
o cry on a nightly basis a
nd will you sneak out an
d walk down to the stop
sign where we exhaled a
nd inhaled smoke and we
held each other and ****
man when i laid on the as
phalt i still wished a car w
ould come speeding by e
ven though that's so ****
ed up and this isn't even a
poem it's just a ****** up
story but if you ever love
d me at all, you won't pi
ck up the bottle- you wo
n't take a shot even if it m
eans remembering the tr
igger.

Dormo …dormo profondamente
le palpebre  chiuse e pesanti come la neve cadente
la mente offuscata dal impetuoso pensiero
vagando nel obblio senza trovare il sentiero
la ragion ormai vola via col sussurrar del vento
oltrepassando  l’oscurità  della  luna  d’argento …
da lontano ti vedo rivolto al indietro
entrando dentro casa senza aspettare il mio rientro .

Dormo…
dormo …incessantemente…
dormo senza poter sognare, stupidamente
nei miei pensieri il tuo sorriso brilla
ed io vedendoti rimango come l’argilla
pietrificata …
e se ci penso meglio, direi ghiacciata;

Dormo…
dormo…inconscentemente
senza mai potermi svegliare veramente
perché ahimè! In questo mondo vissuto palesemente
non trovo la fiamma della ragion che bruci ardentemente !

perciò…continuo a dormire
dormire, per poter svanire
svanire, dalla insulsa menzogna attuale
più esilarante persino della realtà virtuale…

I hear your music
from upstairs play
  in my mind.
My fingertips
brush against the cracks
  as I breathe a sigh
  of relief when the light
streams from my window
I imagine
the strings of a guitar
from downstairs
   on my kitchen floor
wondering how
I got this far.
Life's never been
kind
towards creative states
  of minds
but when I think
I've given up the chase
  I hear humming from
Upstairs,
and beating on a drum
if you took my pulse
  you'd feel my rapid
pulse against your thumb.
  Call me foolish
but I know what I love
and I won't be defeated
by the skeptical sum
  since downstairs
They don't hear what I do
or see the beauty of the rain
  Spilling music on our roof.
So, when I despair
  I listen for a sound from
   upstairs
   to inspire me
  to neve give up.

I cannot sing today
have not been well for a while
I cannot speak, for I
have been struggling, meanwhile:

She rides atop a golden wave
Cries like an angel choir
Is showered with abundant praise
in theory, I should be higher.

Happier for her growing success
though it may drag mine down
I celebrate, though must confess
I bear an inward frown.

Il poeta è un uccello
che becca le parole
sotto la neve del normale
viene sul davanzale
e scappa, impaurito
se lo vuoi catturare
Il poeta è femmina
Il poeta è gagliardo
ha qualcosa, nello sguardo
che tu dici: è un poeta
Spesso è analfabeta
ma è meglio
è piú immediato
il poeta è un ammalato
colitico, fegatoso, asmatico
il poeta è antipatico, scontroso
ombroso: guai
chiamarlo poeta
è una cometa
che annuncia un mondo nuovo
è assolutamente inutile
è un fallito
è un pappagallo di partito
è organico, no,
è fatto d'aria
ha nella penna tutta intera
la rabbia proletaria
è sopra la politica
è sopra il mondo
il poeta è tisico e biondo
il poeta è sempre suicida
il poeta è un furbone
il poeta è una sfida
alle banalità del mondo
il poeta è assolutamente
del tutto normale
il poeta è omosessuale
il poeta è un santo
il poeta è una spia
poi un giorno va via
in un isola lontana
o anche a puttana
e lascia un gran vuoto
nella poesia
la sua
il poeta è il titolo
di questa mia.

O voi che, mentre i culmini Apuani
il sole cinge d'un vapor vermiglio,
e fa di contro splendere i lontani
vetri di Tiglio;
venite a questa fonte nuova, sulle
***** la brocca, netta come specchio,
equilibrando tremula, fanciulle
di Castelvecchio;
e nella strada che già s'ombra, il busso
picchia dè duri zoccoli, e la gonna
stiocca passando, e suona eterno il flusso
della Corsonna:
fanciulle, io sono l'acqua della Borra,
dove brusivo con un lieve rombo
sotto i castagni; ora convien che corra
chiusa nel piombo.
A voi, prigione dalle verdi alture,
pura di vena, vergine di fango,
scendo; a voi sgorgo facile: ma, pure
vergini, piango:
non come piange nel salir grondando
l'acqua tra l'aspro cigolìo del pozzo:
io solo mando tra il gorgoglio blando
qualche singhiozzo.
Oh! la mia vita di solinga polla
nel taciturno colle delle capre!
Udir soltanto foglia che si crolla,
cardo che s'apre,
vespa che ronza, e queruli richiami
del forasiepe! Il mio cantar sommesso
era tra i poggi ornati di ciclami
sempre lo stesso;
sempre sì dolce! E nelle estive notti,
più, se l'eterno mio lamento solo
s'accompagnava ai gemiti interrotti
dell'assiuolo,
più dolce, più! Ma date a me, ragazze
di Castelvecchio, date a me le nuove
del mondo bello: che si fa? Le guazze
cadono, o piove?
E per le selve ancora si tracoglie,
o fate appietto? Ed il metato fuma,
o già picchiate? Aspettano le foglie
molli la bruma,
o le crinelle empite nè frondai
in cui dall'Alpe è scesa qualche breve
frasca di faggio? Od è già l'Alpe ormai
bianca di neve?
Più nulla io vedo, io che vedea non molto
quando chiamavo, con il mio rumore
fresco, il fanciullo che cogliea nel folto
macole e more.
Col nepotino a me venìa la bianca
vecchia, la Matta; e tuttavia la vedo
andare come vaccherella stanca
va col suo redo.
Nella deserta chiesa che rovina,
vive la bianca Matta dei Beghelli
più? Desta lei la sveglia mattutina
più, dè fringuelli?
Essa veniva al garrulo mio rivo
sempre garrendo dentro sé, la vecchia:
e io, garrendo ancora più, l'empivo
sempre la secchia.
Ah! che credevo d'essere sua cosa!
Con lei parlavo, ella parlava meco,
come una voce nella valle ombrosa
parla con l'eco.
Però singhiozzo ripensando a questa
che lasciai nella chiesa solitaria,
che avea due cose al mondo, e gliene resta
l'una, ch'è l'aria.

Questa felicità promessa o data
m'è dolore, dolore senza causa
o la causa se esiste è questo brivido
che sommuove il molteplice nell'unico
come il liquido scosso nella sfera
di vetro che interpreta il fachiro.
Eppure dico: salva anche per oggi.
Torno torno le fanno guerra cose
e immagini su cui cala o si leva
o la notte o la neve
uniforme del ricordo.

Il dolore estremo
la sofferenza che non esiste
ma solo chi soffre
se la autocrea
per sentire se stesso
tramite il dolore tornare a sè
rispettare se stesso
tornare al qui ed ora
l'attimo che fugge è l'unica
chiave
il respiro è la porta
il cammino è la via
il motore immutabile
momento eterno
colori infinitamente diversi
tempo illusorio
presente cosciente
sveglio. Risvegliato
ogni mattina Rinato
Rinasco
Rinasciamo
cresciamo
il tutto siamo noi
ma anche no
Dove voli Airone bianco?
Sulla neve cos' c'è un altro colore
sei tu.

A minha mente
Se confunde e nem sente
Eu minto sem saber o porquê
Essa paixão falsa que você
Nutre por mim
Faz tanta falta quanto a neve
No meu jardim
E eu bem que chorei
Lágrimas doces
No portão de Deus sabe quem
Mas o problema
O x da questão
É que você me usa e não quer
Assumir os riscos da mentira
E desmentira
Que você cria
Inventa
E joga lá fora o meu coração.

Nevica: l'aria brulica di bianco;
la terra è bianca; neve sopra neve:
gemono gli olmi a un lungo mugghio stanco:
cade del bianco con un tonfo lieve.
E le ventate soffiano di schianto
e per le vie mulina la bufera;
passano bimbi: un balbettìo di pianto;
passa una madre: passa una preghiera.

I

No intervalo do incessante
Para lá do perceptível
emaranhado numa zona incerta
quando a noite é mais de trevas
E um quarto bem estreito
é exageradamente infindo
ora ali o oniromante

De outrora letargo
de outro nome alcunhado
que agora desperto
aprende a dormir

recônditos respiros
rebuliços arredores
vasos sanguíneos
coléricas vozes
vislumbra o enfermo
sem remédio
sem cura
Um quadro preto
um naufrágio

II

Jaz adormecido
em cama de pedras
com colcha de espinhos

Lá dentro avenidas movimentadas sussurram verdades
cheias de  agudos
ângulos, retos, obtusos
com vértices nas curvas semicirculares

Um rompante inaudível
turbilhões de incertezas
de vozes cegas
emergindo da fresta tenebrosa
que brilha o **** cobiçado
de seios
de coxas
de longos cabelos loiros
de pele negra
de pele vermelha
de pele amarela
peles tão alvas quanto a neve
Uma avalanche de inseguranças
Correntes de ferro
enferrujadas
que rasgam a carne
com tétano
e o sangue escorre
num rio plácido
repleto de peixes e tartarugas
de ondinas e sereias
onde banham as musas
que cantam o canto de Morfeu
como eólia lira
que entorpece e inspira
o oniromante
que ali adormeceu

III

No sonho de um sonho
há um sonho esquecido
guardado a sete fechos
no fundo inflexível

de imagens arquetípicas
de desejos obscuros
de visões aterradoras
de um jovem bem febril

devagar vai adentrando
nessa estranha entrelinha
qual razão do desconexo
desconstrói o findo dia

tenazes vozes em seus ouvidos
reproduzidas como brados
brotam atroadas
de estrondosas trovejadas

Neste tempo sem um tempo
há tempos transcorrido
inesperados fragmentos
reprimidos e esquecidos

Por frações de um instante
trafegando entre a memória
dos dias das noites do futuro
do passado e das histórias

Clareiam-se como cruz
como carga no caminho
Cultuando a culpa a luz
jaz oculta na cova deslembrada

Estreitos fios a lumiar o teto escuro
tomam forma entrelaçada da aurora
Rompe o limiar do céu noturno
E abre os olhos pra não perder a hora




�

O mamma, o mammina, hai stirato
la nuova camicia di lino?
Non c'era laggiù tra il bucato,
sul bossolo o sul biancospino.
Su gli occhi tu tieni le mani...
Perché? Non lo sai che domani...?
din don dan, din don dan.
Si parlano i bianchi villaggi
cantando in un lume di rosa:
dell'ombra dè monti selvaggi
si sente una romba festosa.
Tu tieni a gli orecchi le mani...
tu piangi; ed è festa domani...
din don dan, din don dan.
Tu pensi... Oh! Ricordo: la pieve...
quanti anni ora sono? Una sera...
il ***** era freddo, di neve;
il ***** era bianco, di cera:
allora sonò la campana
(perché non pareva lontana? )
din don dan, din don dan.
Sonavano a festa, come ora,
per l'angiolo; il nuovo angioletto
nel cielo volava a quell'ora;
ma tu lo volevi al tuo petto,
con noi, nella piccola zana:
gridavi; e lassù la campana...
din don dan, din don dan.

‘ola ‘ippies!
howsh the shlombo ‘aggis?
neve’ tried it? ah... tut tut;
i'm telling you,
they're from birmingham!
no river, no flow!
please direct your concerns
to the L postcode and leave
your address;
we'll be with you shortly -
please do not panic if one of
our employees is wearing a balaclava:
it might be police officer.

Dear Taylor,

     Things are not the way they used to be.
Don't get me wrong I do love you
     Just not the way that you love me.

     I've never had a friend like you
     One I could tell EVERYTHING to
but you, you keep secrets
Things about you
     You say I can never know
It hurts me
     That you don't let your full self show

The first time you told me you liked me
I didn't know what to think
     Or what I should say
So I told you the truth
     That I'd never thought of us that way

I confused my feelings for you after that
     Because when my mom walked out and life got tough
You stepped up to bat
     You where always there for me
Day or night
     Whether my issue be money
or that my dad and I got in another fight
     You were there for me
And my little brothers too
And for that I sincerely thank you

I didn't know how deep your feelings for me ran
     Until I split us apart
You then told me you loved me
     And that I'd broken your heart.
It was then that I decided
That we had to be divided.

     I chose that in this world
There was a you and a me
     Because I knew that an us
could never be

I never wanted to hurt you
I love you
     I did what I did to keep our friendship together
But that wasn't possible
Because things between you and I
      Have changed forever

Tall Nettles cover up the corner, as they have done
These many springs, the rusty harrow, the plough
Long worn out and the harrow made of stone:
Only the elm **** tops the nettles now.

This corner of the farmyard I like the most:
As well as any bloom upon a flower
I like the dust on the nettles, neve lost
Except to prove the sweetness of a shower.


By Edward Thomas.
This is just so unbelievably magnificent .
Love Mary x