MARCH 8th 2019
by Giovanni Torres La Torre
Incomplete and almost solemn the light of this day
returns where it had already been to brighten the flowers in the balcony
to listen to the music of a piano, wishing to get lost
in the mimosa names, of all old songs
when mothers hang out linens
and byzantine madonnas disguised as hazelnut pickers
ran around singing.
Others, as now, in deserts and on seas along barren thirsty paths
that had lost their sails and leaves and stars,
ravaged by tormenting nightmares
but still taking a bet on human games
to have enough to crave a tender dream again.
There is no other love you can worthily live
name of rivers, seas and mountains without imagining
the spell of a cry of love and insanity
to trust every woman with the world of divinity of their life,
mothers of sons felt among the whiteness of veils
or the hellish sharp and piercing cries of every slum,
gibberish of happy days flying without wings
and burning thirst sinking in waterless wells.