Maybe only a variation of this one
Sometimes I’m only my shadow, slipping
into dark and strange nights as a ghost
of myself, as a mask hiding me,
hiding my whole myself and my soul
above all in this silenced world
Yet I need higher go, towards sun
I wish slip into air till to be
in the blue so far sky and so fly
higher, faster and free from myself
April, 21st 2020
JB, 2010
After holidays and winter flashes
there’s sun warmth.
I stretch out legs and arms.
All around mist congeals and blocks my
world and landscapes, remaining pale there
I begin to feel older myself,
to realize my acts are now more slow
despite my flesh that throws my mind far
toward young girl’s thoughts and toward dreams
I compressed emotions, a life
which now overflows causing this upset
that disturbs both my brain and my flesh,
old yet learning me as maiden stuff
Where did go years I spent, time I lost
without kisses and cuddles or smiles,
filled with duties and jobs that I now
feel so dry, feel so cold,
feel as lack?
I’m ashamed of so many words I
group with pens on sheets I hide, unknown:
those are outbursts of people I am,
schizophrenic mind without good drive
Other people are into my deep,
men and women that sometimes like flares
can arrive to my eye to look out:
here’s thus laughs, sometime cuddles
I can
February, 14th 2020
My Precious love can only come from above
In unity is born a kiss of dignity
My Precious love will only come from above
And there you wish away
And with the least they met
You love better
Precious love
Precious love
Precious love
Precious love
Precious love
Precious love
Precious love
Precious love
Precious love
Precious love
Space weaver,
by Lisa Gerrard
My friend Kristine Blackadder told me about a strange song: Space weaver, by Lisa Gerrard. I listened to that song and saw its video. A woman dances, alone in an empty space; she wears a very large black dress. She keeps her hands near her hips and her arms are bent, so I can imagine two eyes, two gaps of light in the black of a mask. Her body is also bent, as to simulate a nose protruding from a mask.
A black mask.
The song flows and the woman dances until that mask seems to vanish and the woman becomes what she really is: a woman.
She becomes herself, without any mask and far from any dream.
An expression recurs obsessively, maybe as a prayer invocation, surely as expression of ineffable desire: Precious love. It is repeated twelve times.
Well… that’s my true love story.
Because my precious love came me from above.
Because when I met my precious love I found myself as unity.
Because my precious love gave and gives me dignity.
Because dignity and love grew and grow again as unity.
Because I saw and see what to love means.
Because I became me, taking off any mask.
I found that pic here
My dear friend Sharrow told me something about this stuff, so I changed something in it.
Thank you, Sharrow!
Maybe is this soft sweetness of linden
that spreads itself around in the air
into the already warm night of May
like strong wine which confuses my mind,
Maybe is this May sudden sun which
draws my linden out from the sleep where
I lay lazy, old and tired too
as I am a dry clod far from all
Maybe it’s this my spring that May slips
into me and so my blood again
boils renewed and alive. A tear melts
all my masks. Look at me: I am yours
I feel a deep peace into my womb
barren and running toward the nothing.
Now, please, move stronger me and push me
deeply to the way we are looking for
May, 28th 2017
Previous version:
Maybe is this lime tree and its sweetness,
like strong wine which confuses my mind,
that spreads itself around in the air
into the already warm night of May
Maybe is this May sudden sun which
draws my lime out from the sleep where I
vegetate so old and tired too
as I am a dry clod far from all
Maybe it’s this my spring that May slips
into me and so my blood again
boils renewed and alive. A tear melts
all my masks. Look at me: I am yours
I feel a deep peace into my womb
barren and running toward the nothing.
Now, please, move stronger me and push me
deeply to the way we are looking for
photo by J.B., 2016
Now I’m faded as autumn brown leaf after blushing with her last day's fire after green, sun, wind, sky, free life style now I’m faded, I’m autumn. Enough seeing mirrors, enough seeing masks. After needing to run I need peace, slow long love days in which to be nice. That’s my prayer and that’s what I ask
November, 15th 2016
Thank to my friends Leda and Lemonodo for their suggestions!
Photo by Judy Barton, 2009
As I am, you will always can see.
I should be slutness, darkness,
curse against life and God, for I’m bad
when alone with my flesh: that’s my cry
Sometimes I am my beast; I could list
all my evils and sins full of nights,
grown as wrinkles which hope to be smooth.
But I’m a devoted bride, I’m a wife
I’m my skin and my grey shadow, sad,
but you can turn me into bright light.
Don’t you let me alone with my crowds
deep inside my corrupt and fool mind
As I am, you will always may see.
I am often impervious to the others:
To avoid any abuse, I’m my mask,
but you can free myself from my nights
Please, now take me, breathe me and my mind
even if I can choke who sighs so
close to me. You take me, here, now, just!
I’m poor thing, nothing else, without love
September,11th 2016
As I am, none will ever see me.
Maybe shy, I am slutness that whispers
curses yet sighing God: yes, I’m bad.
I’m my flesh and my shivers. I’m my cry.
Sometimes I am my beast, all my beasts,
or my breast seeking cuddles the nights
and my wrinkles which hope to be smooth.
But I’m a devoted bride, I’m a wife
I’m my skin, I’m my dark shadow, sad,
even if I can be true good light.
I’m alone among crowds. I am crowd
inside corrupt fool mind. Into me.
As I am, none will ever see me.
I am tough and impervious to the others.
To avoid any abuse, I’m my mask:
no one walks nude at night in the streets
Please, now take me, breathe me and my mind
even if I can choke who sighs so
close to me. You take me, here, now, just!
I’m poor thing, nothing else, without love
September,11th 2016
Simone Baschenis, 1539 Danza macabra, St.Vigilio Church, Pinzolo
Bones made boards, dreams
just are crumbs,
sterile bridges to nowhere land always
crushed hopes which soon and fast fly
from the things. They are wrecks in the night
Fancies tie up in bundles themselves
heteronyms and so faded masks.
Without flesh any ivory appearance
of the life has the colour of death
SL, Enoki, June, 18th 2016
OK: I tried do get a photo really like this one, but the sun was not gentle with me… grrrrrrrrrr… so I found this beautiful picture here. Thank you Gianni!
Mask of useful bee I too wear
like a hoverfly on a white flower
I put on such a stubborn mimesis
to walk hidden around all the world
My invisible nature requires
gestures, feelings and angry love hopes
Also Judy is a mask and true skin
does not cover this emotion’s software
April, 25 2016
My friend Terry made this pic in SL. These words are both for me and for her.
Cold skin shows all my thoughts naked, so
every night I dress darkness to go
where I meet you to make love alone.
We are only a bright little star
that survives in a shiver, then dies
lost in nowhere space without a cry
Daylight cuts off the truth and my masks
come to protect myself from those eyes
as my clothes hide my shameful flesh
No one may ever see my deep soul
otherwise I became brittle glass.
No one must ever see myself nude
I kneel down, often I kneel and lie
under the bad world eyes that strip me:
white and cold then I show no girl’s soul
White and cold as a dead woman knows
SL, Helvete Norge Fjord,
November 15th, 2015
Here you can find the bad translation into the Italian language.
The skin of the angels 