Poems I Wrote In Salsomaggiore


Sleeping Salso

A mosaic of pines in my nose,
A morning still in its womb
Cradled by the amber moon.
Walk in silence, in nothing more,
No other wind
But the white wind that laps the eye-lashes.
Cruelty is still asleep in its braided cage.

Improvise perfection with last night’s melancholy
In the patio of the spikenard greeting.
There is no keener fear of leaving something behind
Except for the fear of finding something new.
The dawn breaks on our lips.

Pathways Without The Homeland

The hills are a sleeping woman,
Like Venus without the sea,
She is more virtuous than history.

The silent village shelters its slow heart
In the horse’s hooves,
Treading on the dry leaves.

What do we have to lose in life
Except life itself?
The vastness makes life worth losing.

The spring will soon dress the geishas of trunks
With kimonos of red satin,
And the sky will be a womb.

Distant home has nothing more to give me,
Its languid foundations
Are immovably shaken.

I will think of something new to dream of
When this moment is over.
Let the green heart sing.


Keepers Of The Oasis

In the hour bathed in orange blossom
Love begins to lose sleep,
Returning to the pierced surface.

No face veils the pulse,
No light swims inside the trench
But the trees ignore the wind and lie still.

The Apennines were born
Where the clouds end,
Like this they sound bells
With saline tones, bubbling,
Entwining the buried valley
In an embrace of nails.

To be is a fact
But it need not be real,
Just felt.

Pity is lost time
Only to be regained
In a mutual promise
Between love and dreams;
And in this un-labelled night
The pilgrimage to the promise
Is completed on the tears of marble,
Celebrated with scintillating toasts.

The heart is no longer a barren desert;
Love bestows the oasis of rosaries.

Let gyrating waists be the womb of dreams.



Star light above the road
That sleeps like a siren
And winks to the napping rooftops
With flickers of quaint orange.

Yellow houses and shops
Shelter the Apennine wind
With arms of silent brick
And dream of all I’ve longed for.

Oak louvres in mustard bodies;
Who lives behind them?
Are they as beautiful
As the moonlit avenue?

I want to know!

The expanse of the lush earth
Casts a shadow of fairies
Over the bustling tables,
And the night breathes tranquillity.

I want to know!

A bible of windows;
Wooden genesis, leading
To a thacthed apocalypse,
Inspired by the flood of the clear sky.

I want to see!

Gabriel walks in the skyline
With a honeycomb crucifix
To deliver the blessing of the mountains,
And the street is a maze of tomorrows.

I want to see!

The gods are not what they are
They are what they’ve made;
And I see their divinity
In the waving hands of wind and white skin.

I want to see!

Even when frowns ascend
They drown in fleece
Weaved by the young nymph
With the red pine’s silk.

I want to know!

The feasts of St.George
Like wooden beams of pine,
Support the bracelets
Of the double-vested muse.

Ah let me see!

The beat of the deathless life
Pulsates in the new heart.


The Volcanic Hands

Acidic hands delve into the doline,
Tonight they will return to tomorrow.

The borderless eyes
Are celeste comfort.

Life without yesterday
Makes everything eternal,
Without flickering vanity.

The air is an orchard
With fountains of sugar,
The sun’s words kiss the breeze.

Being far away from death
Is not enough to live,
One needs violet marriage.

“I see everything from outside
Without shadows, without views;
I never look inside
For the heart always hides.”

Lucidly, languidly, speaks
The ravenous skyline.


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