The wind


The voice of the wind has the color of dreams
When I was a child I was joyful to life
The voice of the wind and the memories of days gone by
Of sun-scented afternoons
Of cicadas songs in the burnt fields
Of words whispered to the night
Of throbbing memories of love
Of questions posed to nothing
Like light dances lost in the mind.
Why ... don't you listen to the wind?
Why don't you listen to me anymore!



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Time has stopped












.... And time has stopped there
on distant hills, between old stone walls smelling of bread
among green cypresses, among vineyards perfumed with wine,
between shameful hands that caress me.
And time has stopped ...
I dream of you, I remember you, I listen to you
in my thoughts, but you are far away
and you go and I stay alone while time has stopped ...

(Poetic Trebbo 2000)



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I would like ...


I would like everything to be lost in nothing
I would like to wander in an unreal silence,
where beats of light dance in the wind.
I would like to walk where hands outstretched
they sing sweet melodies.
I would like to fly where wild rivers
run through the soul.
I would like to shout to the people: stop and smile!
I would like to get lost forever in your pensive eyes
I would like to run where dreams - my dreams - yes
stop in time.
... I would like to ....

(Poetic Trebbo 2008)





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And ... you appear to me


White streets of dust
sunny green fields
distant voices and sounds
sweet land guardian of my dreams
distant whispers, echoes of silent memories
that come back in my infinite thoughts.
What are you hiding in your stillness
what are you hiding in silence
of your green expanses, in the song of a bird
in the slight trembling of leaves in the wind
in the brief memory of a moment
suddenly appearing immense and mysterious
while I'm looking at you more and more small and desperate.

(Poetic Trebbo 2008)




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And the gaze is lost in the uncertain horizon
where little bare trees sleep.
A light wind - like the beating of wings -
it stretches out over the barren fields.
A distant and ancient noise
traces damp and dark furrows,
as you order wounds that open to the light.
And the earth, slowly, awakens from its long torpor,
throbs and smells ready, for unmemorable years,
to welcome life.

(Poetic Trebbo 2006)




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