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
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
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
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,
sun will bright again, more
Easter comes, anyway.
Easter comes, despite me.
April, 10th 2020
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
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
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?