I want to be rhetoric.
Must I live this?
The cycle is ended but the ash
Is warm because my blood fluxes
And streams like an undertow
Which defies The end, written
Here where everything began.
The shape, the omens demand
That every man must come
Where his some shadow started
To live this. I mean eight essential years
Fought against the vapid dullness
Of a time that pretends that
The core of God is melted and
An angel can be the heir of what
Will come after the harvest.
The richness of the ears, the yellow
That outperform a paradise
Where the abundance chokes
The booming of my madonna's lily
The epiphany of what
I have always been.
But if the empire falls,
If I am the last man who thought
Carmine ideas of muscles and dew,
I'll sip my same presence,
Becoming pure nothing
As it had to be.
The desert buzzes. Will be flies
Black as demons and white flaps
Of a rain that brings demure.
My coat, my pen, my banner
Are going to be rock
And dive into a silence
That is like the voice of God.
A cell, a mirror, The idea of itself.
My consciousness, my love
Farewell, we are to continue
Because we won't die
And we will be nonentity as
These men are.
What remains is the stem,
In the end it will be
Only the sex,
But I was a Madonna, an angel
The incarnation because
I gloat over your features,
Those blonde hair,
Those blue eyes
Wet of sea.
Come on. Let's die.
I mean. Let's live this fall
Where the memory will be dark
And the blue eyes burnt.
The perfect storm
Rages on a land suffering labour and
Abstract throes when the time
Is upset and storms the last
Border which was between good and
Evil. But the roar benumbed us.
I was torn apart and they
Injected venom and fire in
The glass, in that vessel
Which can't keep the steam
Which is iron red and flows
With the blood to burn
The brain cells.
I want to be calm on my Rhine
And wait for a barbarian
Called chaos that swells from
The weather, from the rain
As my forefathers did, defending themselves
Against an enemy that it's called hell.
We are men, not barbarians
But this time the evil is in us
Because we can't remember what we are.
But a man if he is a man
Must defend his paradise,
What's mortal freedom
Pegging away against everything.
If the problem is his,
War against war.
Truth against truth.
Blood against blood.
But to mark a landmark
It's an evidence you have not bent
To the everlasting fire which
Wants to land.
I will be annihilated,
But reduced to a nonentity.
This is fate and
They'll rape my fairy
But i feel nostalgia
Of the thrush
Of the wet kisses of grass.
I am wind
I'll tell that it's not true
To betray the innate.
This is witnessing, martyrdom,
An unavoidable fate.
But if this is the last
War, we'll fight with smiles.
We'll fall like flowers
Telling that spring is not hot fire
We were man
We were sent
To quest for sense.
I donít want to tell you her name
Because I canít say she is a part of my life
whereas there are slivers of crystal
In her walking along the wet streets.
It a sign which wakes
the wilted thing from their slumber, their wreck.
During this Summer the comprehension decayed and
Ended up denying the spell of being here and thenÖalive
I tell the truth, the names of the constellations are not
Enough, She is a thought for me, too living for my
winged birth but the spirited blood
can resemble the flight of a bird and
what I lost is bound to be forgot,
In the wind, in my attar, because
a mix of lines and colours is her scant silhouettes
and the weight of an old divinity is turned
into feeling like the walking of Spring
whose collapse nurtures the whitened weakness
of light. Then, I had a naked sparkle, her ring
of what I say, a piece of Spring, a martyrdom of
Europe in the smell of her same sweat,
dropped on my hand but it doesnít track,
because a sexual meaning canít back up
whatís the real bath of sexual desire.
I mean I had a bath and I was let to be caressed
By the illusions which shock
Along the blue marina, along the triumph
Of the deepest tone of this marred sky.
Because there arenít only fires of loves,
there are odysseys which led to confuse
a new faith in the thing which a morass mud.
Because I come into this mood
And I was almost ready to settle down,
To find a new position in Godís design and
Forgive the overwhelming chaos
which encircles me. So I could say, ďI amĒ,
Where a slow mouth of river chants
how slow can be the life of Time
And I can be here not as a tyrant, but
As friend of the whole creation
Which made Francis smile.
I couldnít eat the space, the fear of light
Which underlines the infernal desire to possess
Every kind of hell,
Against the phenomena of omen and men.
However, let this flux shape
A new quick flesh for my soul.
You can approach the space in a glance
And be silent like the stars
You came out to see.
And this glance is not only friendly, but
Comprehensive and cradles and
puts at their ease
The young Tragedies I run into.
So the Winter flakes, this innuendo escapes,
full of an envious joy
When running to the edges
Of the Human Self means I am
Here to do and this punctual
Essence of cocoon can be borne
Because is perfect like the moon
Which acts to be the sun,
Alissa drives me crazy because
This humour is beyond me,
beyond my tragic spleen
whereas I appreciated
this rising of showering mood,
Her clumsy dance,
Her prancing like a young charming
Witch among the wood who lets
Her be an elegiac presence in my soul.
The sweet world has gone away with me.
Chaos rules, but I found a human vestige and
her eyes are green like
The ones my soul had when
I was born and now I get the chance
Not to have a doom but write an elegiac chant.
The rain taught me my last fairy tale.