Pic from here
Rumi (1207-1273), Persian poet and mystic
Any reed will regret her old swamp
where she was born among sister reeds.
Now she is moaning with sweet music and
whoever hear her remembers that pain
We are stagnant in this stifling air
while we are going through these tired sedges.
Any color today is a pale viola
secular sobriety without hope
March, 8th 2018
Purple Lamium makes reddish the sad
field beneath a grey sky hanging there
while Lent runs very fast all around.
There’s no idea that someone could revive
Purple dead-nettle puts in the fields
its blood near the green grasses’ grins so
overbearing, made by shameless life
I’m dark purple, I walk in a world
where none wears Christian hope, where none loves
nor true life nor its full meaning too.
Yet You are, You hold me, resurrect
March, 20th 2018
Pic from here
If I think I am right
if I see black as white
If my night is a sigh
and I find not my site
If I do not agree
and think that I could be
better me fully free
even if I am a flea
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without joy and withdrawn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?
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
From the sixth hour until the ninth hour darkness came over all the land. About the ninth hour, Jesus cried out in a loud voice, “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” which means, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken Me?”
(Matthew, 27: 45-46)
The word “Copt” is indirectly derived from the Greek Αἰγύπτιος Aigýptios meaning simply “Egyptian” (from Wikipedia).
How many times I go to the Sunday mess only because I always do so? Only because I must do so?
How many times the mess is boring to me?
The same mess, in the same day, for other Christians is an important and precise choice.
The same mess, in the same day, for other Christians can be pain and martyrdom.
As the first mess was.
As the mess of Christ himself was.
… and I go there without thinking.
Or, better: and I go there thinking to some most important matter!
…and I go there and the mess often annoys me.
I think that if I’ll go to the Hell, it will be so not for an excess of life, but for my omissions.
Not for my luxury, but for my accidie.
Yes: for my sloth.
Now I pray for all you, dear sisters and brothers.
Now I ask also to all you, sisters, brothers: “Forgive me, please!”
Up: one of the music of yesterday ceremony, here by one of my favourite ensable…
Last night I went to a church where there was a Via Crucis sung by a chorus in which I have some friends.
It was beautiful and touching; each station of the Cross was marked by a chant a cappella: before and after only silence. I listened to several treasures of the millenary cristian tradition: from medieval songs to Allegri, Mozart, Rachmaninov, Bardos.
All that beauty surprised and moved me deeply, above all because it was all about pain and death and not only human pain and death: God died. How much beauty the man was able to build in the arts about such a tragedy!
So, I thought that it is not only the blue of the sky, the colours of the springs, the lips of my love or the joy for the life to show me God, but also the darkness, the pain. The death.
If the man, this very poor being, has the power to make beauty from the death… what’s the power of God?