Tell me

Chagall, Songs of the songs

 

Thou wanted me
and then I wanted thee too.
In thy garden
thou welcome me, so I come
to look for thee and to be together with thee.
Tell me, o tell me
who I am
and why
thou are my delight
thou for me.
Tell me, o tell me
who we are
and who are thou
thou, my beautiful one
that took me, so I took thee.
tell me where
both in the cold and in the warmth
we will be
tell me that thou are the tower
and the palm full of fruits.
Tell me that thou are the breeze
perfumed among the grass
that the winter drives away.
Tell me that thou are dew
and the fountain
which dispels any desert
tell me that thou are for me.
Where do thou graze the herd
of thy soul?

Italian version

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Pale light

Another beautiful pic from Leaf and twig

 

Pale light gives me the sun in this day
made by orange and red in the woods
and by yellow too, when each leaf knows
that soon will be down dead in the mud

I enjoy this pale light of the sun
when so gorgeous each leaf gives me fire
in the woods dressed themselves with light.
There will be soon new life from the mud

Eros, thanatos, much more each day
I can see watching at this strange world.
My faith must help me during a life
that I cannot see only as beasts do

 

October, 26th 2017

Italian version

Red blood

JB, 2017

 

Red blood of an exotic Woodbine
lights again at the gates of the winter
in the gardens and among the stubbles,
where it pierces thick veil made by mist
 

Vivid purple flares up so much violent,
as if be woman’s flesh grown up turgid
that screams looking for love satisfaction.
I see lips tremble, lying in the grass
 

Red and green: that’s the life resurrection,
and is filled with beauty at the dawn
till the evening when I come back home.
I’m in love and desire you tonight

 

October, 16th 2017

Italian version

Now my bed turns to gold

JB 2017

 

Now
gold and light make together my bed.
Yellow, orange and blue paint sharp drawings
demonstrating an order, a sense
After the confused darkness of winter

 
Rich in gold and so precious my bed,
it is like when you touch my nude skin,
You, the sweet love that lives in my depths.
I feel peace overnight, when I’m sleeping

 
Now my bed turns to gold and it shines
as the light in the room and reflects
my thoughts full of the warmth of affection.
You are my spring and you scatter my winter

 

May, 31th 2015

 

Italian version

Red cachemire

 

JB, 2017

 

You paint using so sinuous thoughts
every night all my night and my skin
quivers, trembles and asks for caresses
as she was still young and gets upset

 
Spring is trap and a danger for minds,
it’s a fire, it’s as scattered poppies
like the blood of a young woman when
she surrenders and gives her to love

 
In the winter I wanted my bed
red and I doodle my unsure dreams
every dawn as in cashmere designs
when you go far and I think alone

 
I don’t fulfil you, you don’t to me, neither
it’s enough this flesh for the immense wish
that you open wide as the blue does
when it breaks the clouds and at last shines

 

May, 9th 2017

 

Italian version

I’m a gift

Flower myth, 1918 – Paul Klee

A rosebloom I give you as a gift. It has whorls
red, rich, complex, compound
like the unspeakable hope that my flesh
as well as my deep spirit requires

 
This rosebloom I give you as a gift. Feel its taste:
the same of my warm blood, the same colour.
It has the scent of all my desire
that your glance upsets and fiercely stokes

 
Get the bloom: it’s my gift for your love.
Then myself I’ll be gift, restless matter
delicate with petals and thorns
which defends both my shame and frail marrow

 
A rosebloom is my gift: I give you it.
You breathe it, kiss, caress, enjoy it
This my present that is me, my question.
My rose I give you helpless tonight

 

May, 3rd 2017

Italian version

The Sunday of the Blind Man

J.B., 2017

The sharp steel of the plough
turns nude thighs made by earth
shaping clay into forms
of exotic brown women

Even if I can count
everyday in the mirror
many springs on my face,
this one twists hard my flesh

A light rain shines the field
where I cross lewd forms
and disperse silly thoughts
while I walk with you, talking

My mind is sick with fog
penetrating my depths
My desire is dull substance:
wash the mud from my eyes

March, 26th 2017

Italian version