Almost an obstacle course,
so, the days chase each other.
The golden dawns aglow and silvered,
the sunsets etched in bronze,
deep within,
carve the face.
Sunsets that minutely crumble
the most intimately reposed arcana,
that pulsate,
like hearts gone mad,
in the most profound inner of the soul,
weary,
yet eager to live.
The sunrises and sunsets
embroider around the eyes
the future,
that will feed on these seconds,
just scanned.
Seconds, now seemingly cynical,
tomorrow who knows,
sublime,
poignant,
suavely nostalgic.
Hatred and love,
joy and sorrow,
eternal,
incomprehensible,
inextricable Manichaeism.
But I am human,
thankfully,
frailly human.
Suddenly,
perhaps unconsciously,
the mind glides silently
on our,
of youth,
now old photo collage.
And furthermore,
on the images that a thousand times,
a thousand and a thousand times I will have,
with a tender for your love,
tasted.
And there,
in those instants,
in that flashback,
it is how I feel.
I think of a shabby pendulum,
then wobbling,
now still.
And I can't help but wonder,
how many more days are ahead of me?
In my mind,
on the palette of memories,
as of Van Gogh a delirium,
your eyes,
your sparkling enamored pupils,
seem an immortal spell,
a universe where fantasies swing
about what is no longer there.
I feel like a drunken tightrope walker
who defies the odds.
Your lips glisten
on the sharp stalactites of life,
and it feels like a miracle,
a soft rose
that opens in December.
It looks like an oliphant
among the mountains,
the icy breath of Eventide,
and meanwhile,
a yearning of yesteryear,
makes its way into the heart.
A whisper of pain is gypsy
among the dusky wails
of an incipient starry night.
I have gypsy blood,
and I cannot stay still here.
I try to escape
from a hostile fate
that clouds the memories.
It is the middle of winter,
the north wind,
icy,
tears and drags away
the last yellowing leaves,
parched,
and with them,
the residual sap of existence.
The soul silently flows
into the calm lake
of memories.
Melancholy resurfaces,
as the gray torment marches on,
fibrillating the heart,
as once used to do the touch of your hand.
It hovers impalpably,
Dionysian psychedelia.
But perhaps it is a pure illusion.
Pure breath of life.
I let myself go on the wings
of a contradictory chimera,
tranquil,
that yet eclipses among the dark-blue streaks
of indigo-dyed hours.
Despite everything,
still a gasp,
a spasm in the heart,
while with joined hands,
with ancient,
adamantine faith,
I invoke the Forces of Heaven.
All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Mauro Montacchiesi.
Published on e-Stories.org on 04.05.2015.
Meer uit deze categorie "Liefde & Romantiek" (Poems in het Italiaans)
Other works from Mauro Montacchiesi
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