On my table an assassin bug
goes around, takes a look:
surely a prey it is looking for, now.
It’s so nice yet a thin little monster
that kills
Warmer winters let it come here to me
from the south, as the sin
when it enters my mind like a shiver
coming from dark and bad earths of mist
when I kill every good in myself
November, 22nd 2016
Yellow sky made by clouds and the sunset
low down over the country that glasses
far skylines not concluded nor clear.
As wet grass under rain I am tingling
Wednesday, 13th June 2012
Italian version here
Thank you carlo/klimt fot this pic! (original there: http://www.flickr.com/photos/klimt77)
Shivers grow on the skin like spring waves
looking at your green eyes, at the soul
that you hide deeper, behind the face.
Shivers grow both in my conscience now
Shivers move the lake’s water: the wind
is the lover, deep blue is the sky.
I’m a grey stuff, a stone in the fog
of this winter, a sequence of absence
January, 28th 2014
The skin of the angels 