Chrysalis

“I'm nothing.
I'll never be anything.
I can't want to be anything.
Apart from that, I have all the dreams in the world in me.”
(Fernando Pessoa)

 

(I) 

Who tightened the life
containing its impulses
now life is not.
It's just a breath,
perfect shape,
whose breath flew away
from a secret vein
to leave us
the illusion
of a complete utopia.

(II)

Always bleed
the uprooted roses,
but still more lies
in pain
the hand he imposed
his drastic choices,
my chrysalis,
forcing
the thorns
in fearless swords.
Those past glories,
now, I have here
in the hand
as bow devote:
they have lips
color,
and of your cheeks
the velvet.

(III)

Chrysalis,
fragile creature,
you will know how to leave you
fall on the asphalt
without trembling with splinters ...?
Your made-up feather
of armor it was
our evenings
of kisses and caresses,
the high flight finished
on the foam of the tides.
Nobody can touch you,
if not the hands
of whom alone,
with their own ideas,
betrayed tomorrow
pretending to be eternal
until it becomes.

(IV)

It is not impossible
invent the key
who dispels the darkness,
since my song
it is molten metal
and your body
feeble matter.
In your veins, you know,
my blood is stirred,
and deluded is he who intends
show me the illusion.
I can believe in you
chrysalis, in the rays of the dream
filtered out of your body;
what remains
of human promises
I give it to a breath of wind,
to take them away from us,
than of promises
we risked dying.

(V)

In what corner
you will lay the ashes,
my sweet guess?
You will search perhaps
the walls and hedges
not to fly,
or the dream of poets,
plain expanse
blown by the winds?
Until the light
will shake the shadows
you will remain unharmed;
then the evening will flow red,
carrying with it
the blond specter
and the dark
it will devour my every fiber.
Where we will lay our ashes
will then be our only choice,
my unrevealed reality,
running away together
silent as dreams,
from the time that inexorable
rains.

(VI)

Who wants us away
ignore the rules
of our time,
he does not know that the only ones
words build the temple,
than the weight of gestures
it is an enormous matter.
And if the waves
they destroy the stones,
and the wind erodes
the remains, losing their shapes,
that ancient kiss
retains its splendor,
beyond the storms,
since it is deaf
I would always hear the echo.
Not a word
therefore, on the fleeting hours,
other is
from everything
my memory
of you.

(VII)

It never happens to you
to lose the purpose
of your own research?
Of not knowing anymore
with which ground to soil one's feet?
Then the forces fail,
sometimes your breath is short,
and the moor
no longer offers shelter.
See, I think I know
what is my path,
the great road
beyond the lighthouse,
but alone
the step suffers,
and there is none
to wipe away the sweat
from the forehead.
I hope that with you
the sun be more forgiving.

(VIII)

"Epilogue"
I never told you
as the rain changed
its lament
in applause that evening,
when bearing away
the lips on the heart
you whispered to me
a better wind
to dispel the clouds.
I never wrote to you
the clear sky
that appeared to me in the morning,
and how different was the view,
unusual hearing?

Maybe it remained secret,
intact sphere.
Now that it all seems over
I tell you about the sky and the rain,
so that at nightfall,
divided by time and space,
we will pass a finger on the lips,
and that knows our kiss
beyond existence,
shining in a glow
the whole darkness.

9 June/6 July 1996

Italian version