STORY OF A BLIND HEART

It was at that moment that I found myself facing a dark figure with a veiled face. Suddenly, by chance, without my expecting her or her looking for me. We found ourselves, and all of a sudden my heart appeared on the palm of his right hand. Big, red and pulsating, big enough to allow me to recognize its various components in their smallest details.
The figure moved his right arm towards his chest, and our hearts met for the first time. Maybe minutes passed, maybe hours or maybe days, and the figure continued to hold my heart in its hand, while it beat in unison with the organ of the mysterious person. If then this figure was human.
Days and days passed, probably weeks, and the causes of our lives continued to be known.
Until, something changed. His right arm moved away from the figure's chest, taking his hand and heart with it. The separation brought a cold detachment between us, something akin to the Berlin Wall. Walls and walls to divide us; our people had lost their tune, they were no longer traveling on the same wavelength, nor were our hearts composing more wild musical chords. The figure began to emanate negativity, and this struck me deeply: my heart, up to that moment of a brilliant red, began to blacken. Black and gray took possession of me instant after instant, and the figure in front of me performed an action entirely new to me: taking the heart, it began to tighten. I fell to my knees, while a severe pain I had never felt struck not only my chest, but my whole body. The pain crept into every vein and artery of my body, every organ and system. Chills certainly not of cold began to flow inside me, and as I closed my eyes praying that all this would end, I felt big tears wet my cheeks. I opened my eyes again, and saw my heart, now entirely black, becoming dust in the hands of the figure.
So slowly my vision blurred, and, falling to the ground, as I saw for the last time the figure to which I had entrusted my own heart, I thought bitterly how blind I had been.

THE ANGEL OF DEATH

Today I saw the angel of death
he had white eyes
without pupils
and a wrinkled white skin
with a look he tore me apart
reopened infected wounds
with its black wings it envelops me
an old piano plays a waltz.
The winged creature looks at me and smiles
he touches my lips with his fingers
run your hand gently over my cheeks
and then slowly pierces me from behind
it feeds on my blood
of my pain.
Watch life fade from my eyes
bring her thin lips closer
And he steals my last breath from me with a kiss.
And his eyes
and its skin
take back the true color
and scrutinizes me with his head held high
as I fall to my knees in front of him.
I recognize you. 
I remember those brown eyes
that very white skin,
but I don't have time to say your name
that are already with your claws to the throat.
But I remember the name of the one who conquered death and griffin it in your face and you no longer have power over me and my life. 

TEAR DROP

Every drop that falls on the roof,
I feel it
as if they were my tears,
tiny drops of water
that seem acidic
on my parchment skin.
The cold and thundering noise on the metal,
the air full of breeze
the taste of water on the tongue,
life in the woods, dormant for a few moments,
my composition of thoughts
among the crystallized grass.
A monarch with soaked wings,
won't stop trying
to fly
until a kiss of the sun
will not return it

Let me sit down
at the door of your gaze,
you want me to pass slowly
the threshold and you talk to yourself
with my silence,
catch my breath
in the canceled space.
Respect my privacy,
my prudence,
my dignity.
You are a lot to me
more than you think
and you give me peace
of those who have no defenses
of those who do not want
to defend nothing in oneself.
So I call you friend,
when we stand there,
silently listening
the rain dripping
on the leaves.
And I feel that with you
few things are enough
to be happy
until
my smile finds again
the eyes I had
when I was a child.
With you I can
caress the truth naked
on my knees
without rushing to define it.
With you they rest
the wounded words
and, trembling,
we take over
to open the pass.

AMEN

Thanks to my father, I have learned to screw those who think that the world should rotate as their head says, or worse it should rotate around itself. Three sentences and a few attitudes are enough to identify self-reported assholes, a few more behaviors for sneaky or victimized ones. It is not presumption, they are years of parasitization and direct experience with those who do not observe themselves, and in this life they will never do it. Get it out of your head that you can support their path by absorbing their garbage. The sooner you recognize them the sooner you take back your freedom. Nobody can help them, because 95% of the time it's not a solution they are looking for. They just want to pour the non-sense of their existence onto the neighbor (and in that non-sense there can be anything).
Precisely because they turn the root of their problems to everything but themselves, they are unable to be responsible for the harm they do to them and to those around them.
Even if you tell them. It applies to all relationships, know that.

Manzoni  ( ALESSANDRO MANZONI, a famous italian writer of XIX  century) had not seen the plague, but he had studied documents after documents. And then he describes the madness, the psychosis, the absurd theories about its origin, about the remedies. It describes the scene of a foreigner (a "tourist") in Milan who touches a wall of the cathedral and is lynched by the crowd because he is accused of spreading the disease. But there is one thing that Manzoni describes well, above all, and that he takes up from Boccaccio: the moment of trial, of discrimination, between humanity and inhumanity. Boccaccio had indeed seen the plague. He had seen friends, loved ones, relatives, even his father, die. And Boccaccio explains to us that the most terrible effect of the plague was the destruction of civilized life. Because the neighbor began to hate the neighbor, the brother began to hate the brother, and even the children abandoned their parents. The plague pitted men against each other. He replied with the Decameron, the greatest hymn to life and good civilization. Manzoni responded with faith and culture, which do not avoid trouble but, he said, taught how to deal with them. In general, they both responded in a similar way: inviting us to be human, to remain human, when the world goes mad.

Health without Freedom is what is guaranteed to Farm Animals. . This is why they define you as “Herd”. FREEDOM is not a luxury, it is not an extra, an ornament that embellishes if there is, but in short, precisely if one can afford it or else something more comes first concrete.. NO! FREEDOM is your right to live, to work, to be happy, to express yourself, to be there .. what’s more concrete than your right to be there ..? Sometimes I would like to find an arrow indicating “free life”. I don’t know, maybe in the process of some woods, where the light filters through and the heat doesn’t kill you. A kind of guarantee that you are going to meet like-minded people there. People to talk to about everything but vaccines, governments and passes. Just talk to. A place you reach to express absolutely nothing, no opinion, no point of view on hundreds of points of view by now worn and tired. The only thing that sometimes matters is the need for sharing among similar people. Vibrate in the same tribe. Simply because it feels good to be together on the road. Stay in touch with those who look like you and aren’t afraid to hug. Talking without a muzzle, talking about good things, without someone having to convince the other and the other having to defend who knows what. Talk about what seeds you planted, what bullshit you did, the music you wrote or the love at first sight that got you. Thus, without having to find that prosaic sense to the questions of living, the more you think about it the more they have nothing to do with Life.

Yes it’s true, it seems to never end. It seems that humanity is condemned to an eternal struggle just to buy bread. It seems. Lately I often answer with a phrase that I said to myself when I was working, giving exams and in the meantime I had my father in hospital for cancer. Be grateful that you can fight, because you mean you are Alive. No matter how long the fight seems, it is the purpose and the mood with which you face it that make it appear to be war or peace. Choose your path and you will no longer have any doubts that that bread tastes sublime. The whole system is made in such a way that man, without even realizing it, begins as a child to enter a mentality that prevents him from thinking anything else. It turns out that there is no longer a need for dictatorship now, because the dictatorship is that of school, of television, of what they teach you. Turn off the television and gain freedom. Even the way you dress and the haircut you wear makes you realize that you really don’t choose anything. Already becoming aware of this would show the world in other terms.

Keep walking, when you realize it you will already be with your buttocks on the ground, in that uncomfortable position that the puppets hold. Immediately after, a long and obstinate reflection begins on the convenience of staying there on the ground. But the companions are already moving away and the path is far from appearing a clear path, obvious. It is not even in question the idea of ​​staying there all life, with the mud filling the soul and the backpack, so that the time comes to get up, a difficult situation and unpredictable in its results. Perhaps it is better to continue to stay on the ground and drag yourself little by little but, in addition to being not very aesthetic, this is impractical (believe me, I have tried it): there will always be a hidden root or a thorn to hold you back, and then a new reflection on the comfort of sitting in the mud, despite the mosquitoes, flies and blue flies. Already determined to get up, which is always the most difficult thing, comes the complicated operation that consists of resting with your hands and knees where it happens and trying to place the heavy hood on your back (so simple, and heavy, is to carry the house on the shoulders: just a plastic sheet and a hammock). But the backpack insists on carrying other absurd things: some poetry books, some clothes, a mismatched sock, medicine for the world, food, a damp blanket … The load as a whole weighs tons (especially after the first hours of walking) and tends to get muddy whenever he feels like it, that is, almost always. By now tortoise face on the ground, it follows the act of putting one foot and getting up on the other, with the consequent protest of the knees; the horizon then widens and will always be foreign. With the eyes on the ground, the march is undertaken again until the next fall, which will occur just a few steps ahead. And history repeats itself …