I found this pic here
Night tonight is so beautiful, dark.
White, high, far are the Pleiades, sisters,
and there’s an unobtrusive Moon that
winks at eventide, at lovely Venus
They are bright, shining women from past;
sky too is as a woman’s skin, velvet
black and soft, stretched out in this silence,
waiting for cuddles, love and for peace
Silly fantasies and women as
naked stars, ravings that night indulges.
A plane rapes everything, getting into
artifices into silent sky
Never stars were those women nor night
was a black lovely girl waiting quietly.
Dreams and myths mix themselves and are mads
while so much tiredness
January, 29th 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
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.
Picture from here
I remember your eyes as two fires
even if black as black was the cape
that hid everywhere your face and the body
years ago, there, in the underground train
You seemed proud and contemptuous about
myself and all my so perverse world
too much free or perhaps I hurt you
staring at your so lovely eyes
You were Arab, maybe, anyway
from another world; you seemed me
really beautiful, so upright and sure
to be better than us, flabby and weak
I don’t know when I saw you, the year
when we met on that train, far in time.
In those days we had no fear or suspicion
about evil intention by Islam
Then the towers, the wars and the crazy
attacks made by your people … by you?
Our planet was wide at that time
now each thing changes and the Earth is so small
January, 16th 2018
Luca Signorelli, The damned, Orvieto Cathedral
In the 2017 edition of 2lei, SL event for the elimination of violence against the women, there was also a work based on my texts. This is the machinima made by Marissa during the event.
I’m sorry because today exists only the Italian version.
I am proud for this work and also touched for the beautiful readings and interpretations of Ortensia, Exantia and Eloisa: three friends and three women.
I am grateful to Elettra, who asked me to write this text, and to Terry, who built the staghe design.
I am especially grateful to my friend Kristine, who understood the true meaning of my texts before than I did.
And, of course: Lemonodo! Thank you very much!
Oh! if you want to see a not so bad translation, as Lemonodo told me, you can click the “subtitles” button, in the right bottom side of the youtube window. Then, select “English” in the settings!
Here we are, as a part of a gear
that is pain made by pain
girls and women we were and now fear
Winter days give us shivers
in this wasteland which quivers
in this ourselves made hell
where no one can breathe well
Frozen chains bound the hearts and cold rain
like old blood wets the buds
of black plants on the ground to a drain
Winter ways and the figures
of this wasteland which quivers
lead us to this foul hell
where I hear that death knell
Life to death again: that is the flood.
Sisters moan among whispers
that strike our ears as can do a stud
Winter boys give us shivers
in this wasteland which quivers
in this themselves made hell
where they grow rude and swell
Now the life changed and it's a whipper:
red wounds filled my skin and my soul
and my tears grow so much… as a river
September, 16th 2017