Cry the sap

Like some wreck of a life that has gone
stumbling over the time in the past
old dead things in the water now swim
overlapping reflection of trees

 

The leaves are blooming buds
and breath on Hardened wood
made like stone by the sadness of winter.
The canal stretches out between fields

 

Also I walk around overlapping
memories to this day, mixing tiredness
with the sighs of a spring
for which the country yearns in the cold

 

In myself there’s the yesterday’s chill
lasting in all the evil I can.
Make me water and canal, reflection
of You: I’ll show the light that is in the day

 

When You said to reborn as a child
maybe it’s like old men that can wake.
As an excess of life from my branch
cry the sap because You resurrect

April, 9th 2017

Italian version

Anyway

Pic from here

Anyway
If I think I am right
if I see black as white
If my night is a sigh
and I find not my site

Anyway
If I do not agree
and think that I could be
better me fully free
even if I am a flea

Anyway
when my life almost gone
lies like a bored swan
with no strength, without brawn
without joy and withdrawn

Anyway Easter comes
when You rise again. Does
anyone blind the shine
of the least single sun?

Anyway
You don’t need any pass
to save me from myself.
Let I be not impasse
to my way out, besides

Friday, 14 April 2017

Primo vere

Photo by JB, 2017

A wreck blackthorn is a candid moan
in the hedge, border of a wild fallow.
As cheek blush of young woman in love,
as the bush, also my heart now blooms

Unassuming, the blackthorn is shining,
everybody now sees how it’s beautiful,
candid life in the incipient season
which promises songs to little birds

A white blackthorn is a candid smile
in the sad sea of everyday, twigs wreck.
Please, put blossoms on me, on my branch!
Spring founds Easter out from the usual time

March, 21st 2017

Thank you Leda for your suggestions!

 

Italian version

Gethsemane


In that garden I too slept that day,
each day I slept and I’m sleeping now,
in this night while you die in my place
not as a vague answer: as true man

I’m ashamed of you, I hid your face,
all this Europe hides you and your Cross.
We are stolid, so weakling and silly
in the black sludge of our bad brains

What kind of Easter does wait for us
on this red dawn when all evil bubbles?
Not the way I now think: yours, as always
like a white blackthorn blossom in winter

 

March, 26th 2016

 

Perhaps not happy at all, but holy Easter to all you

Italian version