Matthew 26: 17-75


Guido Reni - San Pietro in lacrime (particolare)

Guido Reni, Saint Peter’s tears (particular)

Christ is the one who, having endured suffering, is “the pioneer and perfecter of our faith” (Heb 12:2).
Pope Francis

Every day, every hour, every minute of our lives, resurrecting, resuming, recommencing must set our path, must be the law.
Luigi Giussani


Your friend comes with the world to betray
in the darkness the life and its meaning.
In that garden. In that garden I sleep

You were one of his too. It’s not true!
It’s not true! I perjure, scream and lie
one more time, once again. For three times.

Maybe it’s dawn and it crows anyway.
You knew it, you said it. I did it.
Let my tears gush out when roosters crow


Holy Thursday: April, 6th 2023

Italian version

Lent Friday


Koeder tronco

Sieger Köder, Jesus is given his cross. I found it here

Well, yesterday I was at that concert: a meditation about Lent made by music and art images.

It was very moving. To cry. I did it.

While I was listening to the chorus, my fingers wrote this too much long stuff.


Empty church listens to you through verses
of the old and the new, moved by
looking at You: both love and dismay

Every niche resonates with songs
of supreme beauty and highest pain
Ineffable nevertheless obvious

Death and joy and salvation and sorrow
tightly encircle my heart and my mind
You fill my misery with your love

You are a gift to each and to all
and the scourge consumes you for my good.
Look: I offer you the crown of thorns

You see me and save me, me so little
flesh pervaded by evil and pride.
I am dry earth and you are mourning me

All world history does not end here
I do not end here, caught by my evil
And You colour my so pale poor face

Tell me: did I strike you just now, there?
on this day and in the years I saw
I hide myself and there: Eve, the snake

Give me water that gushes from bones
that the spear broke, outrageous, insolent.
I want to drink You, You are not offended

You resurrect all death into full beauty
senseless things are so changed to hope.
Come fast and take me, take me just now

A sigh tears off my mind where the life
came forever here, into the world
I’m a disgusting beast; You save me

The death silence now cries out hard pain
and denounces the crime of all times
“I am to decide, to will, to do”

Now I see: I am the way of the cross
and its substance; I condemn to death
in my heart You, my God, who saves me

My soul is seeking and needing salvation
while time quickly corrodes my flesh
I want to be born adult to love You

I recompose my face in your one
while the world fast corrodes my hope.
On my knees I adore You. On my knees

Empty heart listens to You through verses
of the old and the new and I’m moved.
I look at You, You love and dismay.

March, 25th 2023


Italian version

Dry earth


Pic found here

Dry earth, tired of dust moans at my
footsteps so that a weird and odd creaking
cries chords of a life that’s something missing.
“Water!” begs the desert of each meaning

Dry earth is now as dust where I walk
tired, listening to silence of
no one rising from flat dark nowhere:
empty meaningless space of these days

I’m dry earth. I need fresh dew that could
flow and be both allusion and notice
to spring turgors, now, nowadays lost.
My skin is filling with lines and pains.

Here the earth dries up and wears out more
the day that folds itself to the night
senseless of one who is slave of instinct.
Give us You, water and light that’s missing

March, 28th 2022

Italian version

Lazarus’ Sunday

JB, now.

Well, I think it is very silly to share captions to some words, yet I must say that this is the first time I tag a stuff with coronavirus and apostasy too. My first time. I see a connection there and I must shout it.

Thank you Kristine for your contribution to open my eyes. Thank you. Be good.


This my dying vine sprouts
dry brown buds on wood branch
without lifeblood or hope
to be tender green leaves

There’s no more spring in mankind,
in this endless and soft feral feria
enveloping us in a pale stuff
where each thing becomes laziness

Lazarus also sleeps, still in silence,
bloodless and under white linen shrouds
waiting for life that is still suspended.
Anyway, all we are now death sick

I’m my dying vine with brown
sprouts that dry on branch wood
without lifeblood or hope
to be tender green leaves

First of all, it is not this disease
to bite life: it is sloth that fades us
like confused grey fog and cancels
every bud rush toward flowers burst

What I say is the world of rich’s evil,
sin of those who enjoy present-days,
even if dull, whilst deny salvation.
I am guilt like apostate is.

I am that dying vine and no sprout
I show but dry ones on my branch wood
They are without lifeblood nor they can
show a hope to be tender green leaves


March, 21st 2021

Italian version

It’s here spring

They, here, today, a few minutes ago


It’s here spring again, It’s here spring now
all my garden declares clearly that
with wild wide-awake flowers and bright
new green grass and a blackbird that skips

Also a plum tree had waked up early
and now sprouts it’s so many white buds.
Violets are a lot and they melt
themselves into fragrance in the breeze

It’s here spring again, it is now spring
wide awake flowers, farmed or wild
in my garden declare clearly that
and they’re violets, primroses,

Lent is running fast toward your Easter
it’s another strange one, without laughs,
among silenced roads, sirens, and
infinite vanity of the whole

It’s now spring again, anyway life
breaks as well nature stasis and mine.
Like a tulip I wait for a burst
of red petals: it’s your Easter, come!



March, 13th 2021

Cold raindrops

This beautiful photo and some words by Catherine made me write this stuff


As cold raindrops
from sky to a puddle
we all run down so fast
while our sun is pale ghost
as in winter, and cries.
It’s a shadow of what it should be,
only a sign of what it could… must be

Like cold raindrop
my soul stands thin, frail,
in this world puzzled, mad,
only a shadow of what it should be
only a memo of what I could be

I’m cold raindrop
that pours weak and dull
over strong lava rock
old and black.
That’s how world treats now me,
without take care of none.
I can’t scratch its surface.

Each cold raindrop
falls from sky to ground
without sense.
I’m thus too when I trust
in my hands or my mind,
while heart dries up soon, fast.
Friday, now, my Christ dies.

There’s no raindrop
that falls without value.
Each thing goes towards place
God gave it before Time.
Three days after this pain,
after Petrus went out
and wept bitterly…
Three days after that rooster,
that sword,
sun will bright again, more
Easter comes, anyway.
Easter comes, despite me.

April, 10th 2020

Pandemic into

Pandemic, a cooperative board game.

My dear friend Kristine said me that in past time theatres closed during Lent because people thought that purple colour bring bad luck …

Each thing goes mad and a new disease,
faceless, rapes and outrages our minds
weak and poor and without anchorage.
Humans expel God from world then weep

Tonight rest ruins itself into grief;
soon new day will become dark for mists
and meantime full of empty silences.
Purple Lent closes world’s theatre now


February, 27th 2020


Italian version

Lie, fake leaves

I hope I’ll tomorrow can share here a photo of mines!
I Just did it, and today is March, 31st 2019. Lol.


Any elm dresses lie that’s fake leaves
under an early sun that warms up
changes which we still can’t understand
in their whole and enormous huge power

Lent is only like a vague trouble,
inconvenience to me, as a room
desolate in which I look for door.
I need You if I escape from You


March, 28th 2019


Italian version

Reed flute

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



Italian version



Purple Lamium

JB 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

Italian version