CHIMES

Arranged in front of me,

to me and my steel hammer

everywhere in this room as vast as a desert

the men

they are like tubular bells

metal cylinders arranged

motionless like a terracotta army

Similar and dumb

but not one the same as the other

similar cylinders

but not one the same as the other:

black iron

bronze

stained copper

reddish gold or fine gold

there blue silver

pure platinum

brass of tuba and handle o

industrial cast iron

Similar bells

tubular

standing waiting

but I know: none the same as the other.

I know every mouth is the same

but before singing.

So them.

Ritual bells all the same distinct not by shape

but from the toll.

It is not them I am looking for, but the sound.

And here under my hammer they sing each of a different song.

Each releases its own reverb

concentric aura of possibility and splendor

violet vibrations

and gilded

that ripple and innervate

the emptiness around.

I'm not looking for men

but stories

each precious

none ever

the same as the other.

MORNING SHADOWS

Shadows behind my back,
they give human thrills of presence that I took my breath away. They all crowd to get my attention
and in the meantime they swallow my words.
Greedy,
marauders,
they play as if they were killer dolls.
They look for my pulsations,
vibrations,
lively feelings to make them crowns of thorns.
I open dull books and they immediately come out as actors from a distant past.
They want to sigh again,
whisper secret things to me,
make me forget the morning sun.
You swing big through the light,
but in the dark you disappear.
Follow every movement unable to resist,
silent and dark.
If you had the opportunity, how many things would you say? Muta, do your job,
accompanying me everywhere.
You are part of me even if elusive,
I have you but I don’t possess you.
I see you but you cannot do the same,
I would like to tell you many things but your ears would not perceive the sound of my voice.
Sometimes people can become shadows too,
you know?
People are afraid of the night. He is afraid of the dark. They believe that nothing can be seen in the dark. “Dark is dangerous: you never know what it can hide,” they say. But they don’t know that the darkness actually hides nothing. In the night the masks fall, the shadows vanish and only what it really is remains. I am afraid of the day, of the light. Because it makes you believe that you are safe, but you are surrounded by shadows, by masks worn out of fear, by repressed feelings, by hidden pains. How much strength does it take to look at the truth when it is not hiding?
We need light and its emanation, without it we do not exist, the shadows, even if so dark, prolong and outline the hidden part of being. Know how to choose your sun, so that your shadow is the brightest part of you. When the sky is gray the world becomes gray and you in it too. Yet, once you pass the clouds, you find yourself in the hidden world that you did not see from the window, you find yourself in front of an infinite white and soft ocean that acts as a separé from the real world. And thinking about this, you begin to look among those few glimpses that allow you to see beyond the clouds and, imagine flying, flying and flying, going higher and higher, beyond the roofs of the houses, above the lights of the city, and beyond above the clouds, and then begin to caress that hidden sky, which until the gray ocean appeared above your head, you didn’t even realize existed.

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