In the wind that tells the air,
I am surprised to stay still,
not to fly away,
to anchor myself to the roots of the restless earth.
The waking hours, at night at 4,
when the kitten meows,
the hours out of the dream of the stairs that go down and up,
they are so white, so stellar.
A distant movement of clouds, noises, hisses and breaths,
while I imagine the night as a light traveler,
without baggage, without destination,
towards a horizon there,
behind the mountain peaks.
I got up,
with a candle in hand,
as in dreams,
like someone who wants to see in the dark,
and I saw the air, clear, very clean, transparent,
but I saw it and I was inside that air,
as if you were something touched, caressed,
and I had no fear of death.
What purpose would I exist if I were all contained within myself?
But I am contained by the air and this invisible container
I saw it for the first time last night.
Like looking through a transparent, crystalline glass.
The world is immensely foreign to me,
because I look beyond the peaks and see,
I see through the rock,
I see the breath of the animals in their burrows,
the men in their shelters, doubtful and insecure.
A dove's wing moves,
his presence sounds in the silence.
I go back to bed, I blow out the candle,
I get back into the air and sleep.
It doesn't matter who I am.
It doesn't matter what my name is.
I have seen the air and the fire of the eternal soul,
inside a breath of wind that was going away
but I stay here, on the bed,
and I dream of being able to save trees.
Young people with an ancient soul are an asset that must be held in high regard because they have received as a gift the extraordinary bridges that unite ages and generations. The price they will have to pay will be that of never feeling totally part of the past, part of the peers around them. But if they exploit their gift in an intelligent way, they will have the opportunity to have a broader vision than many others and not to live in one time, but to experience, with full awareness of the most minute dynamics, the transition from one era to another. another one. They will not be inhabitants of the past, they will be inhabitants of history. Children of the past with an eye to the future. I looked up and saw the plants whose foliage swayed slowly in the wind. I allowed myself to feel that warm breeze on the skin of my face. It wasn’t true that the world was going very fast: it was I who was running wildly. The world was still, no, it danced happily with an age-old calm. My rest lay in the wind. The most beautiful time in the world the magic hour is to be in the countryside. you don’t meet anyone. The air is cheerful bright and fresh the larks challenge the sun sewing in the blue while finches get wet in the rare puddles that the north wind does not have still drunk. It is then that I I feel myself I feel my body dismembered in infinite lightness. This tacit acknowledgment it is a precious solitude which cannot be purchased. Men look like hallucinations to me bad fairy tales delusional utopias now that in their lairs they eat for a long time long wishing to live. Poor deluded! they do not know that I’m thinking of them here.
So ready to disappear
I was
so featherweight
and apologize to the skin
with every dust of air
for undue occupation,
so impressed by the transparency
I was
to make glass
tersissimo
to dazzling mornings
and smell of wave
between propped bodies.
So strictly useless
the soul
my
to keep it green next to it
in the long course of the so-called
dating
without any unhinging
of speech.
"Then? Then?"
Then
I slipped out
in hard peel
world skin,
I make a silence
on evil,
a cloak
of insolent beauty
terrestrial.
I cannot command
this flow
it is a great work
of clear yield
with a majestic current,
I am a word to the light
I was born.
The green-eyed girl watched the falling rain hit the window; the drops competed to finish first, it was like a competition and the first one that arrived disappeared into thin air.
A bit like life.
Life is a constant race of speed, only those who keep running find their way while the others get lost halfway and in order not to waste time they take another one that leads them to unhappiness.
Then there are those like the girl with the emerald eyes who from the beginning do not know which way to take and remain at the starting point waiting for someone to pick them up and take them on the right path.
But that someone will never come.
Her eyes slaughtered by the night.
She who in her eyes had the routes to the moon.
She who was cold inside, the cold that freezes your veins.
She who no longer believed in love, she didn't want a guardian angel.
Those eyes have seen too many things for the few years he has.
Her eyes always on the edge of the precipice.
Always ready for the explosion.
They say that crying is good, good for the soul
But when your soul is too tormented where nothing makes sense they are just wasted tears.
Like, have you ever confused the dream with reality?
Have you ever been high?
Did you believe that your train was moving while it was stopped?
Maybe I was just a little girl and that's it.
We were on the train and we were approaching Venice. After Mestre I start to feel a smell in the air .. A strong smell coming through the windows. It was hot and the windows were all open. I smell better and finally smell the sea. I start crying like a desperate one. All the people turn and they all look at me with concern. But it wasn’t desperation. They did not know that it had been three very long years that I had not seen and heard the sea. So smell that well known smell it was beautiful. And then once we got to Venice I was shocked by its beauty. The very fact of not having cars around was fantastic. Then as soon as I arrived, from a side street, in front of the colored marbles of San Marco I was moved again. Because those colors, those shapes, everything was like that
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 