Parlo con la
tua ombra,
porto a spasso
le tue orme,
colleziono
i tuoi sorrisi,
tingo i fiori
del profumo
della tua pelle.
Bagno le radici
del tuo amore,
per vederlo crescere
ogni giorno.
Voglio te,
il tuo spirito,
il mondo
che ti circonda.
Nero su bianco,
l'inchiostro
scorre libero,
come le onde sul fiume.
Convinta e sicura,
una penna, scrive,
piccole parole...
Caro amore mio...
Ti amo...
Mi manchi...
Sono perso senza di te...
Non riesco a vivere
la luce del sole...
Non vedo le lucciole nella notte...
Un'anima vestita da pennino,
scrive parole dettate
da un cuore solitario,
ripetute dall'eco dell'anima.
Inviate ad un amore
che vive lontano.
Oggi mi firmo
con il nome che mi sento.
Tua ...
Mi manchi.
Silenzioso
come una foglia
che si schiude al sole,
profumato come un giglio
al suo compleanno,
più bello
di un narciso narcisista,
più sicuro
di un nido
su una quercia,
ricercato come la
fonte della giovinezza.
Attimi su attimi
Il vento del sorriso
soffiato dal cuore,
onde di gioia
spinte dall'amore.
Gocce pesanti da un viso rigato e triste,
frastuoni di pensieri struscianti
come serpi velenose.
Amore. Odio. Vita.
Attimi di vita pura,
come fuochi di speranza,
anima circondata da muri
di mattoni d'argilla
educata, rispettosa, saggia.
Anima inchiodata
dalla purezza e dall'amore.
Anima rinchiusa da sbarre.
Sbarre d'egoismo, di crudeltà.
Tristezze, sorrisi, pianti e speranze.
Attimi cercati
come una scia di una cometa,
eterni, rari, irripetibili,
incisi nei ricordi per sempre.
In sogni eterni come le comete.
Durante tutto il viaggio la nostalgia non si è separata da me
non dico che fosse come la mia ombra
mi stava accanto anche nel buio
non dico che fosse come le mie mani e i miei piedi
quando si dorme si perdono le mani e i piedi
io non perdevo la nostalgia nemmeno durante il sonno
durante tutto il viaggio la nostalgia non si è separata da me
non dico che fosse fame o sete o desiderio
del fresco nell'afa o del caldo nel gelo
era qualcosa che non può giungere a sazietà
non era gioia o tristezza non era legata
alle città alle nuvole alle canzoni ai ricordi
era in me e fuori di me.
Durante tutto il viaggio la nostalgia non si è separata da me
e del viaggio non mi resta nulla se non quella nostalgia.
Then a lawyer said, "But what of our Laws, master? "
And he answered:
You delight in laying down laws,
Yet you delight more in breaking them.
Like children playing by the ocean who build sand-towers
with constancy and then destroy them with
laughter.
But while you build your sand-towers the ocean brings
more sand to the shore,
And when you destroy them, the ocean laughs with
you.
Verily the ocean laughs always with the innocent.
But what of those to whom life is not an ocean, and
man-made laws are not sand-towers,
But to whom life is a rock, and the law a chisel with
which they would carve it in their own likeness?
What of the cripple who hates dancers?
What of the ox who loves his yoke and deems the elk
and deer of the forest stray and vagrant things?
What of the old serpent who cannot shed his skin, and
calls all others naked and shameless?
And of him who comes early to the wedding-feast, and
when over-fed and tired goes his way saying that all
feasts are violation and all feasters law-breakers?
What shall I say of these save that they too stand in the
sunlight, but with their backs to the sun?
They see only their shadows, and their shadows are
their laws.
And what is the sun to them but a caster of shadows?
And what is it to acknowledge the laws but to stoop
down and trace their shadows upon the earth?
But you who walk facing the sun, what images drawn
on the earth can hold you?
You who travel with the wind, what weathervane shall
direct your course?
What man's law shall bind you if you break your yoke
but upon no man's prison door?
What laws shall you fear if you dance but stumble
against no man's iron chains?
And who is he that shall bring you to judgment if you
tear off your garment yet leave it in no man's path?
People of Orphalese, you can muffle the drum, and you
can loosen the strings of the lyre, but who shall
command the skylark not to sing ?
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
my soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
for the ends of Being and Ideal Grace.
I love thee fo the levei of everyday's
most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise;
I love thee with the passion put fo use
in my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith;
I love thee with a love I seemed fo lose
with my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath,
smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God, choose,
I shall but love thee better affer death.
Picture and book remain,
An acre of green grass
For air and exercise,
Now strength of body goes;
Midnight, an old house
Where nothing stirs but a mouse.
My temptation is quiet.
Here at life 's end
Neither loose imagination,
Nor the mill of the mind
Consuming its rag and bone,
Can make the truth known.
Grant me an old man's frenzy,
Myself must I remake
Till I am Timon and Lear
Or that William Blake
Who beat upon the wall
Till Truth obeyed his call;
A mind Michael Angelo knew
That can pierce the clouds,
Or inspired by frenzy
Shake the dead in their shrouds;
Forgotten else by mankind,
An old man's eagle mind.
The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves,
The brilliant moon and all the milky sky,
And all that famous harmony of leaves,
Had blotted out man's image and his cry.
A girl arose that had red mournful lips
And seemed the greatness of the world in tears,
Doomed like Odysseus and the labouring ships
And proud as Priam murdered with his peers;
Arose, and on the instant clamorous eaves,
A climhing moon upon an empty sky,
And all that lamentation of the leaves,
Could but compose man's image and his cry.
Bird sighs for the air,
Thought for I know not where,
For the womb the seed sighs.
Now sinks the same rest
On mind, on nest,
On straining thighs.