Black butterflies in the stomach,
blue feelings up and down,
they go somewhere in the purple.
Shades that come from wings that don't fly,
emotions stagnate,
psychological distortions,
mental allusions,
immortal threads.
Do you know that the flames sleep inside the dark ash
that paints the bodies that dance in the Sufi circle?
Return to Draconian breath,
remember what can be fragmented without breaking.
Volcanoes are already breaking up the lands,
already the dance of the heart becomes a quantitative science.
I have opened an electromagnetic field,
you can become a tiny boson to open yourself to dust wings.
A drop of light advances in the hourglass of time,
like a tiny dust fills the horizon,
I walk and I'm barefoot in the sea,
together with my black butterflies.
I'm inside your room, I see the thread of dreams that pervades you,
I'm barefoot and I'm starting to tremble,
I'm starting to fade into the pixels of your mind.
I feel the heat, the pain,
the wings growing too big to stand still,
I abandon all footing,
I can't get dark again.
Nomad the beauty of a storm.
Sandy wind rose,
persuasive whirlpools,
frantic wanderers of the Dharma,
they put themselves in the shade
to avoid sound deceptions.
Here it comes, the heart thunder,
shakes every vein,
like a heart attack in the sky.
The power of awakening,
rising from one's grave, existential,
stand up again,
to live another day,
to be immortal. The heart does not know the veil of reason,
it goes like a train,
against every sandstorm,
embracing every grain,
opening a new dimension and handling sound like a weapon against ferocious old age.
Here comes the thunder, raise your voice,
says "don't give up" and starts flying with lightning,
and both create a universal energy field.
( ITALIAN RHYMING VERSION)
Nomade la bellezza di una tempesta. Sabbiosa rosa dei venti, suadenti vortici, affanosi vagabondi del Dharma, si mettono all’ombra per evitare inganni del suono. Ecco arriva, il tuono cardiaco, squassa ogni vena, come un infarto di cielo. La forza del risveglio, l’alzarsi dalla propria tomba, esistenziale, ergersi di nuovo, per vivere un altro giorno, da essere immortale. Il cuore non conosce il velo della ragione, esso va come un treno, contro ogni tempesta di sabbia, abbracciando ogni granello, aprendo una nuova dimensione e maneggiando il suono come un’arma contro la vecchiaia feroce. Ecco il tuono, alza la voce, dice ” non rinunciare” e si mette a volare col fulmine, e tutt’e due creano un campo d’energia universale.
I don’t know if any of you have a chest or trunk where you keep your memories. Sometimes the door of the past opens and many things related to our childhood come out. I opened the trunk of my memory and what I found is beautiful. My grandmother had this trunk, which was actually a chest, which served as a coat rack and bag storage, on which we children sat and imagined driving a carriage, complete with a simulation of the noise of the horses’ hooves, beating the timed heels on dark wooden board. This trunk, however, escaped its textbook location because it was in the corridor and did nothing but feed our curiosity as city children looking for new pastimes with which to pleasantly fill the long afternoons spent at grandmother’s house, slippers with heels and television on those TV programs that she called “useless things”. Although curious, we were not used to approaching the trunk in the corridor too frequently because we felt a sort of awe, most likely infused us by our parents, since inside there were “grandmother’s things that if you touch them she realizes and gets angry “. But one day I took courage and asked my grandmother to show me what was hidden in the trunk. She opened it and in the midst of letters, my grandfather’s military clothes, old newspapers and strange objects, photos of her past came out. I looked at that world in black and white and I wondered what colors the clothes and eyes of those people who unconsciously stared at me immortal from the photo cards had had. I asked my grandmother for the names of multitudes of objects unknown to me, information on their function, on what they had done, if the iron was really as comfortable as it seemed from the relaxed expression of a relative portrayed in the moment of starching a shirt. squares with an indecipherable color. And my grandmother promptly answered all my questions, standing, elbows resting on a round table now full of photographs; she seemed younger to me and it was easy for me to see in her the signs of that girl who survived the war.
Whenever you come across a nice person you are faced with an amazing effort, a huge commitment, you are faced with a person who works on himself continuously, a worker of the heart who works night shifts on behalf of everyone you are in front of a person who never escapes, who manages to put care even in his distraction, who has learned to cause silence when offered to her a provocation remember that you are in front of it a story full of stories, long walks in the countryside of villages that we don’t even know how to pronounce, you have in front of you, a person who does not fear loneliness, who has learned to be alone to become an island to be alone who took his break a lifeline which he made of his salvation an anchor for others you stand in front of it to those who have known despair in person but she did not despair, that has disappeared from everyone, scattered everywhere, depended on no one, dispensation of the world whenever you come across a nice person thank life toast to the universe bow to the sun invents a Sunday throw a party you are in front of a work of art extremely fragile like the canvas of a painting, definitely immortal like a painting.Fragility is part of me, this is true; I feel very emotional and sensitive, able to grasp details that normally people are not able to fully grasp. Even those details are fragile: those little pieces of the world that no one sees, perhaps hidden by the shadow of chaos and lack of time … I see them, and I appreciate them. I see the fragility of the spider web after it has rained, when the droplets of rain run down the threads … I see how easily it could snap, and I sigh, hoping it doesn’t. I am so fragile that when I see a bee, or a hornet, or any insect that could hurt me, that is drowning in a basin, I bend down and pick it up with my hands, because I know it won’t hurt me, because in that moment we are both fragile. At that moment we both suffer. I can’t explain more clearly the sense of fragility around me, but know that wherever you look, in everything you see, there is always a crack, a delicate edge, something that if you look even more carefully, you will find fragile. almost as fragile as you are.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 