Todo cambia

 

This scirocco breaks forests, breaks trees:
it is wrong and my world is wrong too,
black and soaked with so mad bad feelings
everywhere saturated by evil
 

After storm, after days that were storm
now I write. Sense of fulness and peace
covers me. I dissolve my fatigue
while light breeze dispels smoke
 

A far woman sang that “Todo cambia“:
each thing changes and me and my world
and the wind and the clouds … yes: all changes
Stay with me, do not leave me, God come!

October, 31st 2018

 

Thank you Kristine: now I know this beautiful song and enjoy it.

 

Italian version

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Pigeons

Milan, JB, that day

 

Also we spin around as these foolish
pigeons turning each dry thin twig
among waste baskets and passers-by,
pastime for every dog on its leash
 

Under me, under ground subway runs
it’s a tremor that riddles all things
as strange, obvious and widespread upset,
as neglected disorder that’s nothing
 

The alpha city is around everywhere
lost in so futile cares and distracted
of life left on vacation by people.
Pace is not this small bench in this park

 

Milan, Gregor Mendel Park, October, 30th 2018

Italian version

Bellavitaa

Photo by JB, 2014

 

In your lawn I lie down and I’m peaceful.
You catch me as I were simple life
without asking for anything, only
wearing your welcoming smile

 
There are silence and peace on your lap,
your skin is like a dress full of light:
only it’s a slight whisper of dream.
I’m calm seeking your glance to give me up

 

IRC Chat, 29.VII.2018

 

 

Italian version

Cold and peace

Picture by JB, 2018


Cold and peace. A stone church is deserted,
swindled out its old decorations,
all ruined, returned, again risen
surely pale yet now surely alive

There’s a silver cross, it’s as a flame
brightly shining. It hardens immanence
of tangible solace and hope too.
Inside it a Wood crosses our flesh
 

In the cloister, where it now survives
– it was sold – spring and warmth
exalt us like the beautiful apses.
Truly I regret old times of saints
 

Hammer blows on the face of my Christ,
all the heads ripped off from white angels,
columns sold, above all the stone graves
desecrated. Every space marred, spoiled …
 

Stupid beasts pushed out history
which built them and destroyed their own faces
so erasing each sense, beauty, hope.
Cold and peace and memory are left
 

St.Guilhem le Desert, April, 4th 2018

Relic of the Holy Cross, Angel without face, body of St.Guilhem. Picture by JB, 2018

Italian version

 

It is difficult to know who best deserves the title of Most Cretinous Philistine – the people who sold them [the columns of the cloister], those who bought them, or those who now decline to return them. The cumulative damage of these various acts of vandalism [begun with the French revolution] was so severe that it is now impossible to determine the number and sequence of its columns – or even the dimensions of the cloister

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

Joy

Gentiana asclepiadea, picture from here

 

Common bent feebly blurs at the blow
of the breeze rising up from the valley.
Gentian’s perfect blue shows itself deeper
than the lake abyss and swallows up me
 

I see shades of the sky in the rock
where the cyanite peeps out among quartz.
We are two, we are alone and we are happy
in the peace of a day that is joy

 

Riale, Val Formazza, August, 5th 2017

Italian version