The silence of things does not add or subtract, simply.
And a wind and a thirst rises to cut history in two - the thin legs of childhood, the black and white of summer.
Once the possible plots have been dissolved, fate is untied from the hands: rings fall and beauties are born thresholds and dreams, fixed inside the steady eyes.
I tore apart the time to find you, challenging the discipline of things when the fury is evening and passages open inside the name - remains of ovature, a clock that lingers in the silence of breaths.
Inviolable as wishes come true, we have been found by time with the pronouncement of the last born: perfect, meeting the day that is revealed.
The fundamental problem of humanity for 2000 years has remained the same .. love each other. Only now it has become more urgent, much more urgent, and when we hear again today that we must love each other, we know we don’t have much time left now. We always love too little and too late. Let us hurry to love. Because at the sunset of life we will be judged on love. Because there is no wasted love, and because there is no greater emotion than feeling when we are in love that our life totally depends on another person, that we are not enough for ourselves. And because all things, but also inanimate ones, such as mountains, seas, roads, but more, more, the sky, the wind, more, the stars, more, the cities, the rivers, the stones, buildings, all these things which in themselves are empty, indifferent. Suddenly when we look at them they are charged with human meaning and fascinate us, move us, why? .. Because they contain a presentiment of love, even inanimate things, because the planking of all creation is love and because love matches the meaning of all things. Happiness, yes, happiness, speaking of happiness, look for it, every day, continuously, indeed anyone who listens to me now is looking for happiness now, in this moment because it is there, you have it, we have it , because they gave it to all of us. They gave it to us as a gift when we were little, they gave it to us as a dowry, and it was such a beautiful gift that we hid it, like dogs with bones do when they hide it, and many of us do. they hid it so well they don’t know where they put it, but we have it. You have it, look in all the closets, the shelves, the compartments of your soul, throw everything away, the drawers and the bedside tables that you have inside and see that it comes out, there is happiness, try to turn around suddenly you might catch her by surprise but she is there, we must always think about happiness, and even if she sometimes forgets us, we must never forget her. Until the last day of our life, and we must not be afraid even of death, look that it is more risky to be born than to die eh .. we must not be afraid of dying, but never begin to really live, jump into existence now, here.
The grass, the silence,
the moving of the shadow.
Alone, in your morning cry,
the grass, the silence, the moving of the shadow
and the stalks of the wind. Your relief
is to see you calm while waiting
that I come from afar, your rest
is the hope of meeting in the evening
by chance in a winter.
Leave you to disappear,
to be your sky where you look
without remorse, have your regret,
your memory, your empty hands ...
Maybe it's sweeter to cry than to have me.
Long before the white man arrived,
in a Cheyenne village lived a little girl whose
name was Nuvola Fresca.
One day the little girl said to her mother, Last Evening Sigh: "When night falls, a black bird often comes to feed, pecks at pieces of my body and eats me until you arrive, light as the wind and chase it away.
But I don't understand what all this is.
With great maternal love Last Sigh Of the evening reassured the little girl by saying: "the things you see at night are called dreams and the black bird that comes is only a shadow that comes to save you" Nuvola Fresca replied:
"But I am so afraid, I would like to see only the white shadows that are good".
Then the wise mother, she knew it would be cruel to close the door to the fear of her child, invented a round canvas with which to fish the dreams of the night, then gave the object a magical power: to recognize good dreams, that is, those useful for growth. spirituality of the little one, from the bad ones, that is, false and deceptive.
Last Sigh of the Evening built many dream catchers and hung them on the cradles of the children of the village.
As the children grew, they embellished theirs with expensive objects and gradually the magical power grew, grew, grew together with them ... Each Cheyenne keeps its own dream catcher for life, as a sacred object bearer of strength and wisdom.
Even today the Cheyenne Indians build a dream catcher every time a child is born in the village and place it on his cradle. With a special wood, very ductile, they shape a circle, which represents the universe and inside it a web similar to that of a spider. The cobweb will therefore be entrusted with the task of capturing dreams. If it is a question of positive dreams, the dream catcher will entrust them to the thread of the beads (forces of nature) and make them come true. If, on the other hand, he judges them negative, he will entrust them to the feathers of a bird and have them carried away far away, scattering them in the skies.
Loved only by those who had brought me into the world, I was a winged-hearted creature. A free creature, who would never have sacrificed the wings of freedom to a stupid and obsolete feeling commonly called love. Armed only with myself, in the evening, I spread my wings above the world and let myself be caressed by the wind, with my soul naked and free of inhibitions. The warm currents squeezed me and the taste of the lack of ties satisfied me; nothing in the world could ever upset my balance. Nothing, I was sure, for nothing, in my eyes, shone more than freedom. They are artists, for me, those who know how to create a unique world in which to take refuge. You, for me, were an artist. And as such, I envied you when, from the bedroom window, I saw the most beautiful paintings I had ever seen take shape on previously white canvases. Then you smiled at me, sent me a kiss and went back to painting. If it was just a joke, or if you really wanted to give me kisses, I don’t know, but the way you looked at me, the curious eyes with which you looked at my tousled hair and my oversized jacket, made me fall back lightly my wings, before spreading them in all their glory and straightening my head. No one would ever overwhelm me, not you, with your gemstone gaze, not anyone else. I was not like you. I was not beautiful, or clear, and I did not look perfect even with the face dirty with acrylic color and the hair gathered in a messy way. I’ve never been like you. I, I told myself, was free. Free from all ties and free from everything that could have binded me to the world. And my greatest wealth was freedom. Of this I am sure. I lived like this, as it happened. I lived for the day, detaching myself more and more from the earthly world and taking refuge in the warmth of my parents’ hugs. Their chests were warm and full of life. Full of love for me, but that love, perhaps, was not enough. That love, perhaps, did not have the color of your paintings and did not represent sunrises and sunsets. That love, I discovered, was not yours. It was inviolate, unconditional, but it did not come from the chest of the only person who, with his paintings and his smile, was able to take my breath away and make me angry. When I realized I loved you, I cried. I cried like I had never done before. One evening when it was raining I went out, on tiptoe I reached towards the sky; towards freedom, but this was so far away. I closed my eyes, as the rain soaked my clothes and weighed me down, I promised myself that feeling would not touch me. His chains would not have destroyed my wrists. I think I’ve never been good at keeping my promises, nor at winning wars. And so, crying, my feet touched the ground and for you, for your paintings and your sunsets, I tasted your lips stained with tempera, drowning in your presence and in your breath, clinging to my shoulders with all of myself. If you had left me, I would have died. I also gave up my only affections; those parents who, when they learned that I loved a girl, closed the door in my face and never reopened it are still just a memory. “Don’t you want to play with me today?” The wind asks me. But my wings are closed now, I hold your hand. That’s okay, you know? Sleep, sleep a little longer, my love. When you wake up, I will still be here. If, however, you find only this letter, look at the sun. Rising, it brings you a message: “She loves you,” he says “More than freedom?” “Yes, more than freedom.”
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 