Of the tender woman lying among the flowers

The hidden station was to be guessed.

for the longing of the nighttime rains,
due to the changes in the clouds in the sky,
soft light cradles;
and I was dead.
A city suspended in the air
it was my last exile,
and around me they called me
the gentle women of other times,
and the mother, renewed by the years,
with her sweet hand she chose among the roses
and with the whitest ones I adorned my head.

It was night outside

and the precise stars followed
unknown paths in curves of gold
and the things turned fugitive
they took me to secret corners
to talk to me about gardens wide open
and the meaning of life;
but the last smile hurt me
of the tender woman lying among the flowers.
Song of Apollo

Earthly night, in your meager fire

I pleased myself sometime.
and I descended among mortals.

And I saw the man

leaning over the lap of the beloved
listening to oneself being born,

and transformed into the earth,

hands together,
burned the eyes and the mind.

I used to love. The hands were cold.

of the nocturnal creature:
other terrors welcomed in the vast bed
where at dawn it woke me up
a flutter of pigeons.

Then the wind deposited leaves

about her motionless body;
the waters rose darkly in the seas.

My love, I am distressed here.

without death, alone.
The incomparable land

I owe you words of love for a long time now:

or maybe they are the ones that every day
they hurry barely pronounced
and memory fears them, which transforms
the inevitable signs in dialogue
bitter enemy of the soul. Perhaps
the rumor of the mind does not allow to hear
my words of love or the fear
to the arbitrary echo that blurs
the weakest image of a sound
affectionate: either they touch the invisible
irony, its nature of a sickle
Oh my life already surrounded, love.
Or maybe it is the color that dazzles them.
if they collide with the light
of the time that will come to you when mine
cannot call dark love anymore
love already crying
the beauty, the impetuous break
with the incomparable land, love.
To give and to have

You give me nothing, you give nothing,

you who listen to me. The blood
from the wars has dried up,
contempt is a pure desire
and does not provoke a gesture
from a human thought,
outside the hour of mercy.
Giving and having. In my voice
dream less than a sign
of living geometry,
in yours, a seashell
dead with funeral laments.

Submerged oboe

Poor pen, your gift is slow

in this my hour
of longed-for abandonments.

A cold oboe spells again

joy of evergreen leaves,
not mine, and forget;

it is getting dark for me

the water rises

in my grassy hands.

Alas sway in a hoarse sky,

labile: the heart transmigrates
and I am barren,

and the days are rubble.

And suddenly the night

Split by a ray of sun

every man is alone
about the heart of the earth;
all of a sudden,
the night that closes.

I lament for the south

The red moon, the wind, your color

of the woman from the North, the snow plain...
My heart is already in these prairies,
in these waters clouded by the fog.
I have forgotten the sea, the serious
seashells that Sicilian shepherds blow,
the songs of the carts along the roads
where the carob tree trembles in the smoke of the brushwood,
I have forgotten the passage of the herons and the cranes
in the air of the green highlands
through the lands and rivers of Lombardy.
But the man cries out anywhere the fate of a homeland.
No one will take me south anymore.

Oh, the South is tired of dragging the dead

on the banks of the malaria swamps,
he is tired of loneliness, tired of chains,
is tired in his mouth
of the blasphemies of all races
they have shouted death with the echo of their wells,
that they have drunk the blood of their heart.
That is why their children return to the mountains,
hold the horses under blankets of stars,
they eat acacia flowers along the tracks
again red, still red, still red.
No one will take me to the South anymore.

And this winter-laden afternoon

it is still ours, and here I repeat to you
my absurd counterpoint
of sweetnesses and furies,
a lament of love without love.

The night is leaving

The Night has died; the Moon

slowly fades in the sky
and slips over the channels.

September still reigns

about this land of plain;
the meadows have greenery
from the southern valleys in spring.

I have left my companions;

the heart among the old walls,
I have hidden:
my loneliness remains to remind me of you!...

But the day is dawning;

already in the prairies
the beating of the horses' hooves.

You too, more distant than the Moon,

you go through the distance.
The dry flower is already flying

I will know nothing about my life,

dark monotonous blood.
I will not know who I loved, who I love,
now that I am restricted here, reduced to my members,
in the corrupted wind of March
I list the evils of the deciphered days.
The dry flower is already flying.
from the branches. And I hope
the patience of its irrevocable neck.

The tall ship

When the birds came to move the leaves

of the bitter trees next to my house
they were nocturnal volatile blind
that drilled their nests in the bark),
I raised my forehead towards the moon
and I saw a tall sailboat.

At the edge of the island, the sea was salt;

and the land and ancient had been laid out
shells gleamed stuck to the rocks
in the harbor of lemon dwarfs.

And I told my beloved that she was carrying a child of mine.

and because of him I always had the sea in my soul:
I am tired of these waves that beat
to the rhythm of oars, and of the owls
that imitate the lament of the dogs
when there is moon wind in the sugarcane fields.
I want to leave, I want to leave this island.
And she said, "Dear, it's already late: let's stay."
So I started to count slowly
the lively reflections of the sea water
that the air brought to my eyes
from the hull of the tall ship.

The sea is heard again

For many nights now, the sea can be heard again,

level, up and down, over the smooth sand.
Echo of a voice trapped in the mind
that rises from time; and also this
frequent lament of seagulls, or
birds of the towers, what April
push towards the plain. Already
you were next to me with that voice;
and I wish that it would reach you too,
now, an echo of memory from me,
like that dark whisper of the sea.

I haven't lost anything.

I am still here, the sun spins

behind my back like a hawk and the earth
repeat my voice in yours.
And time visible begins again
in the eye that rediscovers light.
I have lost nothing.
To lose is to go to the other side
of a diagram of the sky
by movements of dreams, a river
full of leaves.
The rain

Here is the rain:

the silent airs shake,
and the swallows
seagulls of minimal fish
the dark, calm waters,
They laugh in the lakes.
A smell of hay
saturates spaces and fields.

And the year is going away

without giving a lament,
to unleash a shout,
just one more day
could win unexpectedly.

In precise human time

It lies in the wind of deep light

the beloved of the time of the pigeons.
From me of waters of leaves,
alone among the living, oh beloved,
you speak; and the naked night
your voice comforts
of shining glories and joys.

We were disappointed by beauty, and by disappearance.

in every way and memory,
the labile movement revealed to the affections
the image of the internal glows.
But from your deep blood,
in the precise human time,
we will be reborn without pain.

Letter

This quiet silence in the streets,

this indifferent wind, that slips away
down among the dead leaves or rise
towards the colors of foreign insignias...
maybe the longing to say a word to you
before the sky closes again
about another day, perhaps the inertia,
our most vile evil... Life
it is not in this tremendous, dark, heartbeat
from the heart, it is not pity, it is nothing more
that a game of blood where death
it is in bloom. Oh my sweet gazelle,
I remember that burning geranium.
on a wall riddled with shrapnel.
Or now not even death consoles
And for the living, death by love?
To me, pilgrim

Here I return to the calm square

on your balcony sways solitary
the party flag is already passed.
-Come back -I say. But only to the age
What yearns for spells deceived the echo
from the abandoned stone caves.
How long has it been since the invisible responded?
if I call like in the old days in the silence!
You are no longer here nor your greeting
come to me, pilgrim. Never two
Sometimes joy reveals itself. Extreme
light on the pine that reminds of the sea.
Also, the image of the waters comes.
Our land is far away, in the south,
in mourning and hot tears. there,
they speak, with black shawls
women of death in a low voice,
at the door of the house.
Imitation of joy

Where the trees still

they make the afternoon more desolate,
at the same time indifferent
your last step has faded away,
the flower appears
in the linden trees and persists in its fate.

You seek an explanation for affections,

you test the silence in your life.
Another adventure reveals to me
the reflected time. Afflicts
like death, beauty
it already flashes in other faces.
I have lost all innocent things,
even in this voice, which survives
to mimic joy.

Snow

Night falls: once again you leave us,

oh dear images of the earth, trees,
animals, poor people locked up
in the soldiers' cloaks, mothers
from a belly dried by tears.
And the snow illuminates us from the meadows
Which moon. Oh, these dead. Strike.
on the forehead, struck to the heart.
Let at least someone shout in the silence,
in this white enclosure of buried.
Falling among the flowers

The hidden station was guessed.

in the anxiety of the nighttime rain,
in the celestial sway of the clouds
like light undulating cradles...
I had died.

A city suspended between the skies

it was my last exile;
I felt the call all around me
of gentle women from other days;
the Mother whom the years rejuvenate,
taking the whitest of the roses,
with a gentle hand, she left it on my temples.

Outside the city, it was night...

The stars were roaming
golden curves in their unknown paths;
all things, fleeting turns,
they took me to their secret corners
to tell me about gardens
wide open
and of the exact meaning of lives.

I, meanwhile, suffered with real estate

eyes seeing the last smile
of a woman fallen among the flowers.
Convalescence

I feel love turning into another death

unknown to me, but slower,
that often pushes me towards its forms.

Abandonment of algae:
I search for myself in the dark chords
from deep awakenings
on dense shores of sky.

The wind is grafted.

docile in my blood,
and it is already voice and shipwreck,
hands that are reborn

intertwined hands or palm

with hands joined
in a casual resignation.
He/She is afraid of you
the dry and aching heart,
imposed childhood.
Birth of song

Spring: resurrected light:

rose-colored leaves burn.

Writing about filled rivers

where are islands
mirrors of shadows and of stars.

And your celestial lap overwhelms me

that never nourishes with joy
my different life.

I would die to have you back,

even if I am disappointed,
adolescence of the members
sick.

You call a life

Love fatigue, sadness,

you call a life
that inside, deep, has names
of skies and gardens.
And it was my flesh
what the gift of evil transforms.
Autumn

Gentle autumn, I possess myself

and I bow before your waters to drink the sky,
smooth escape of trees and abysses.

Harsh penalty of being born

finds me connected to you;
and in you I break and replenish myself:

poor fallen thing

that the earth collects.

None

Maybe I am a child:
The dead scare him.
However, death calls to him.
release it from every creature
-child, tree, little beast-
of so many things that pulse
rotten hearts of sorrow.

It's just that there's nothing left to give.

and the dark streets are,

and does not find, Lord, to be someone
that I achieved, by your side,
make him sob.
Dead City

Uselessly, oh hands!
you remove under the dust:
the city is dead.

About the Naviglio

Everyone heard the sinister buzzing.
The nightingale in whose arpeggio
the sunset was announced
fell from the convent's antenna.

What to look for in the well

if the living no longer thirst...
To touch their bodies
swollen and reddish
leave them on their ground;
leave them where they are,
that the city has died...
Epitaph for Bice Donetti

With eyes towards the rain and the elves of the night,
it is there, in field number fifteen, in Musocco,
the Emiliana woman that I loved
in the sad time of youth.
she was recently taken by surprise by death
while I calmly watched the autumn wind
shake the branches of the bananas and the leaves
from its gray house on the outskirts.
his face is still alive with surprise,
as undoubtedly it was in childhood, dazzled
through the tall flame arrester above the wagon.
Oh you, who pass, pushed by other dead,
in front of the pit one hundred sixty
take a minute to say hello
the one who never lamented about the man
that here remains, hated, with its verses,
one of many, a worker of dreams.
Syllables to Erato

And the heart folds in solitude,

exile of dark senses
in which it transmutes and loves
what seemed like ours yesterday
and now he is buried in the night.

Shimmering semicircles of air

in your face; you appear to me
in the time when the first anxiety afflicts
and you turn me white, slow the mouth
in the light of the smile.

By having you, I lose you

and I am not distressed: you are still beautiful,
quiet in a sweet position of sleep:
serenity of death extreme joy.
Tree

From you a shadow detaches

that mine seems dead
if the movement oscillates
or breaks blue fresh waters
on the banks of the Ánapo, to which I return tonight
in which lunar March it incited me,
rich in wings and herbs.

I do not live by shadow alone,

what land and sun and sweet gift of water
new foliage they gave you
while I lean and dry
I feel your bark on my face.

Elegy

Icy messenger of the night,

you have returned clean to the balconies
of the destroyed houses and you illuminate
unknown tombs, desolate remains
from the steaming earth. Here rests
our dream. And you become solitary
to the north, where everything runs
without light towards death, and you resist.
Ancient winter

I desire your clear hands

in the shadow of the flame:
they tasted of oak and roses,
to death. Ancient winter.

The birds were looking for millet.

and immediately they were of snow;
it is the same as the words.
A little bit of sun, a star of an angel,
and then the fog; and the trees,
and we made of air in the morning.

Refuge

On the edge of the ravine

a pine twists
suspense: curved
What is a crossbow,
it seems to scrutinize the abyss.

The nocturnal birds

they have him in asylum;
and in deep hours,
alas that are cast down
they disturb the sleeping air.

Heart in shadow:
suspense your nest
from a distant voice,
You spend the night in a glimpse.
Visible, invisible

Visible, invisible
the carter on the horizon
among the arms of the road calls
respond to the voice of the islands.
I am not adrift either.
the world revolves around you, Leo
my story as a night guardian
in the rainy hours. The secret has margins
happy, stratagems, difficult attractions.
My life, cruel and smiling inhabitants
of my paths, of my landscapes,
It has no handles on the doors.
I do not prepare for death,
I know the beginning of things,
the end is a surface through which it travels
the invader of my shadow.
I do not know the shadows.
Color of rain and iron

You said: death silence solitude;

like love, life. Words
from our provisional images.
And the wind has softly risen every morning
and time the color of rain and iron
it has passed over the stones,
about our closed buzz of the damned.
The truth is still far away.
And tell me, broken man on the cross,
and you, the one with swollen hands of blood,
What should I respond to those who ask?
Now, now: before more silence
enter into the eyes, before more wind
if it rises and more rust blossoms.