Yellowed,
the now-creased diary of the time,
cynically skims its
most rarefied,
most vivid,
unforgettable memories.
And meanwhile, the god Kronos,
with sharp burin streaks
the velvety,
young warps
of my former face.
Kronos engraves primordial graffiti,
adolescent,
immortal.
Graffiti that,
like fragrant synaesthesia,
from a shaded oblivion
embroider the soul.
And again,
tireless
the God Kronos,
inlays before my eyes,
rivulets,
now golden,
now auburn red,
and then turquoise,
in a pinwheel of emerald reflections,
like gravel beds,
of liquid,
incoercible emotions.
Graffiti,
prophets
of my already visible future
which will be eternal
of ephemeral,
of deep
of barely experienced emotions.
My thoughts linger
on all the humans of great culture
I have met,
on those, I have yet to meet.
And here's my book,
toward an embedded sundial,
and I can't help but wonder
what the true essence is,
the great value of time.
The anamnesis of you,
almost vibrating in a platonic hyperuranium,
it seems like a theurgy,
a divine image
in the realm of metaphysics,
where imagination swings
like a psychedelic compass
whose magnet is delirating.
It sounds like a metaphysical saxophone,
bewitched,
the cold breath of the vesper
yielding to mystical,
impenetrable darkness.
Longing for Love,
of remote warmth
lost in time,
makes its way into the heart.
It exalts a twilight melopoeia
that splits the mind.
And meanwhile,
a whisper of melancholy
becomes erratic,
solitary monad
of the universe.
Inherent in my heart is
a gypsy instinct.
I attempt to escape from an adverse fate
that at times obfuscates memories.
October is about to take its leave
and an early north wind
centrifuges the leaves and branches,
and with them
every impulse of life.
But the newly blossomed bud
remains mysteriously there,
perhaps to tell me
that life is born
or maybe it is reborn,
even in times of intense cold.
The soul drowns
in the opaque lake,
motionless,
of memories,
and relives nostalgia.
A gloomy yearning incurs,
that stiffens the heart
with the breath of ice,
and paints unthinkable,
alien,
the germ of a new existence.
The soul drowns
in the opaque lake,
motionless,
of memories,
and relives nostalgia.
A gloomy yearning incurs,
that stiffens the heart
with the breath of ice,
and paints unthinkable,
alien,
the germ of a new existence.
I let myself go to the polychromes
of a fantasy,
now calm,
now convulsive,
which, nevertheless,
suddenly,
are amplified among the meandering
of lightless moments.
Incessant vibrates
a jolt of Love in the heart.
And meanwhile,
with monolithic faith,
like ambrosia,
like philosopher's stone,
I yearn for the infinite.
The infinity of your Love.
All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Mauro Montacchiesi.
Published on e-Stories.org on 10/23/2016.
More from this category "Love & Romance" (Poems in italian)
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