Where does lead my road this so grey morning?
Into fog that wraps heavily all things
frosty grass, rimy stubbles and dark
trees that seem only scattered skeletons
Where does lead my road also today?
Towards gates of a new confused day
that together throws deadlines and blackmails
some small things to do before night come
Where do lead again roads anyway?
Into a world I no more understand
where perhaps hope goes bad ...
I know that there is sun above here
give me it
December, 18th 2018
Oh, I’m so sorry: yesterday I cannot post this stuff, so I do it now.
Photo by JB, 2017
I experience the silence of mountain
lonely as balcony over the plain
where each river flows, where each old land
is now fighting against roads and buildings
A big storm is preparing in the west side,
it will be here soon, symbol and fact.
I stare at its black night, at its feature
that completely hides sun and blue sky
July, 11th 2018
I’m sorry, but I had to work a lot in the last days, and I was lucky to have the Xmas holiday to close an important project.
So, I could not share here my stuff each saturday, as I try to do from years.
Yet, now, I’m back again and I hope you will se soon my silly thoughts here, again!
I wish you all the best in this new year. I am so grateful to this blog that allows me to meet a lot of so clever and interesting people all around the world!
Judy, January, 15th 2018
Today they kill him.
The State kills him.
Angel of God,
my guardian dear,
to whom God's love commits me here,
ever this day,
be at my side
to light and guard,
to rule and guide.
Meet Charlie Gard
Photo by J.B., 2016
The air is lighter and invades me so deeply
into my chest and into my mind
to enrapture my grey perverse soul
beyond me and this weighty world's weird
The air is lighter and tempts me and my body
so I climb quickly to find my peace place.
In the refuge I mix and confuse
dreams and memories and silence
Mezzalama Shelter, August, 19th 2016
Thank you to my sister LedaEuropa for her suggestions!
“Visioni devastatrici” by Tom Porta: the Velasca Tower, Milan
I grew wild
and abjuring bourgeois moralisms.
I hear doctors who say to wash hands
I see many idiots to pee
on the guardrail without any worry.
On the train no one looks at me for
everyone dreams somewhere on the web.
I’m dumbfounded and wonder
what did happen
to the artists and the common saints
born among the poor people?
And the navigators?
Where are you,
what about your nice works,
Where are now you, Italians?
I mourn our ancient culture
and the old and sharp rules
and the duty
and the intelligence too.
When it was that also the time died?
May, 31st 2016