Where does lead my road this so grey morning?
Into fog that wraps heavily all things
frosty grass, rimy stubbles and dark
trees that seem only scattered skeletons
Where does lead my road also today?
Towards gates of a new confused day
that together throws deadlines and blackmails
some small things to do before night come
Where do lead again roads anyway?
Into a world I no more understand
where perhaps hope goes bad ...
I know that there is sun above here
give me it
December, 18th 2018
Photo by JB, 2018
There are standing in silence tonight
spectres of bones blackened by shadow
that returns regardless of the scream
of those who long for light and for blue
Your stars up there are piercing the nothing
where’s a gash into clouds that connects
mountain’s rock and sky showing a path.
I sit out of the world on the stones
August, 8th 2018
Photo by JB, 2018
Some anemones still bloom within
their companions that dry any fruit
fitting so life and hope to this season
that decrees defeat and silence too
Also larch trees cry yellow leaves now
among leftovers of tired grass
aimed at signs of next winter start.
Maybe I too can bloom, if I can
Toward Col Portola, August, 24th 2018
Photo by J.B., 2018
Blue light, she is reflected by water:
dragonfly turns around and the pool
is her whole universe so contracted.
She doesn’t know about Dolomites, there
I too go around, trapped days
of the norm that dulls every sense,
where I lose both Your world and Your Beauty
and I waste all my life and its meaning
Malga Valchestria (Brenta Dolomites), August 4th, 2018
Photo by JB, 2018
I already know this wave, its side
toward me, toward returns to beach
firm and usual, full of all my going…
I beg You: take my ship away from its port.
Give me a further that drown any pale
norm, a stagnant backwash, empty roaming
across all usual seasons and balance
that sleeps dreaming about silly itself
Give me impulse to face the blue of
Your so distant clear sky and the night
of my confused heart, of my nothing.
Let me be like a life, like its bloom
July, 9th 2018
Pic by JB 2018
It no longer exists, nor its rooms
nor its battlement towers. The castle
is reduced to a tourist fun chance,
its shaped stones were removed, dispersed
Still alive is the village; the white
rocks are cut and experienced again
while pine and holm trees are now the bush
calm and warm and dark green spread so much
The so powerful strength of a time,
the splendour of tapis and silk velvets,
the luxury and the glory are all faded.
They are only pale spectrum and far
As Baux does, I am often a ghost
made by hopes and illusions: past days.
I recycle my stones; they are old
as lost dreams, as a presence not true
I would like to be more, really alive
I should be what I am, what You want.
There’s a me in my shaped white heart
please discover it, please come to me
Baux, April, 3rd 2018
pic by JB, 2018
Vivid red earth here burns and her blood
raises as violent cry to sky,
as a flame that begs for existence.
Ochres are a magnificent spasm
They shine as does the light in the deep
upset when a day starts, like life does
in the dark depths of woods
when they rise from the winter frost time
We were primitive, we were naïve,
like beasts innocent starved of senses.
With the hands and the earth here’s a dough
made by amazed, just early beauty
As this earth I beg You; my fragile
female flesh yearns for You. You graft me,
for You can, in the space of my way
while I ask never filled true matters
Roussillon, Le Sentier des Ocres,
April, 2nd 2018