Mauro Montacchiesi


It's when the stars are shining
the most alluring moment I want to experience
my Manuela's Love.
Her eyes are as dazzling
as the starry nighttime sky,
there is no need for words to understand.
She makes up my skyline
and I am aware that
the essence of her kisses is paramount,
her Love is unwavering and intense.
Initially, we set out slowly as a game.
Her presence in my life makes me blessed.
If I'm still breathing,
if my mind is yet thinking,
it's just because my Manuela is there.
Manuela, my wife, beloved woman,
it seems like a vibrant path of silver, wandering sap,
where at night, the sly moon mirrors itself,
it looks like a colorful way of divine light inlaid,
where, by day, the radiant sun smiles,
thy Love that impetuous bursts from heaven's evanescent gates,
thy Love happily gushing from the lush, mossy plains,
and harmoniously glistens and romantically murmurs,
up there, where the tender, noble prince is an ibex
and an austere eagle, a majestic lookout.
Manuela, your Love, feels nature vibrating around him
and the heart of the earth, wet and fragrant with rain,
that unstoppable pulses.
Cellos, violas, violins, and double basses.
The string orchestra is complete.
One can hear frogs, asparagus, and holm oaks:
Double basses with the gravest sounds.
To them respond the nymphs, mezzo-soprano violins
and then the primroses, soprano violins,
echoed by hyacinths, tenor cellos.
Untiring they are,
the sudden rain and the woodpecker,
beating rhythm to the performers.
Crickets, tadpoles, squirrels, finches, and cockerels join in,
making a falsetto chorus, while the bees, ants, grasshoppers, and mole cheer, clapping to this hymn to life.
And your Love, Manuela, feels moved, deeply troubled
by this lyrical, colorful miracle of Creation.
Your Love freely flows,
of my green, misty valley towards,
though failing to illuminate it,
though failing to reach to irrigate it,
though forgetting to taste the persuasive smile of the silvery birches,
while failing to shake the silent detachment of the ancient aqueduct
losing its pieces,
while failing to penetrate the moist fragrance of the plants of the great river,
where joyful beavers with soft brown fur play.
And yet does not come, Manuela, your Love,
to the yearning melancholy of my valley,
and yet, it comes not to the green expanses quilted with flowers.
Shimmering, murmuring, it advances towards my valley.
It wanders up there, to the gates of heaven, amid the majestic peaks,
until it almost laps the turquoise sky of perennial glaciers.
Gently it winds, it flows, effervescent with light, with foam,
blending in its bed, the dark pebbles among the silver waters.
It flows and winds along with its colorful squiggles of light, water,
along with its shining trout that ascend it, dodging
the dangerous sucks of the eddies.
It dives itself, your Love, into its depths,
into the very depths of its lights and waters,
and then it dips again until it almost flies,
Manuela, your Love, delirious of that bustle that is hers!
It winds and flows amidst the plains contoured by rocks and lichens,
Where the nightingale is a jolly minstrel and the squirrel a lyrical bard,
towards the thriving, green my valley, almost poaching it,
though not reaching to illuminate it, though not reaching
to irrigate the valley of my soul.
Today, however, your heart rejoices serenely, for it knows who has won:
Manuela, your Love, who thrilled and amazed vibrates beyond the little white cirrus,
lovely, like a serene carillon harmony
and then begins to glide, my Manuela, your Love,
on pointed wings, on the forked tail of a black-blue swallow,
musical sweet herald on its colorful colors.
It is joyous and suave, Manuela, your Love.
And it is a feast and immediately a feast
of iridescent reverberations, of mysterious emotions.
As a whimsical, Botticellian painter, your Love,
softly lays its brush, fabricated of colorful a breeze,
on leaves, on branches, then inlays white roses, red azaleas,
of houses, terraces, and windows.
With threads of lace, it quilts the velvet of meadows of bluebells and currants,
at the passing of its breeze, the delicate caress.
With mild, delicate wails, Spring-Flora is being born,
Under the divine gazes of Venus and Eros, in an aura of perfect Love,
While Mercury, further on, with Caduceus, drives away the clouds,
for a honeyed Spring-Flora without end.
And now, as joyous and suave, fragrant breaths, Manuela, your Love
Astonished unfold buds of azure hyacinths, of purple-white lilacs.
While perfuming, your Love breathes,
Of pure sap, the streams on the winding countryside carve precious, intricate lace.
Swarms of ladybugs, bees, and butterflies quilt with iridescent
reflections of the clear air
And right there, under soft sunbeams, stand kissing the delicate corollas.
Joyful and suave, Manuela, your Love,
precious gem, a concert to sacred living, arcane melody,
among the doodles of the heart brings back to life ancient
yearnings that were never relatively dormant.
The magical motion of the soul. Abandonment to the enchantment
of sacred living,
to the tender flow of that mild breeze of it,
to the intoxication of a thousand fragrances,
to the peace of this harmony,
in the dream that,
Manuela, your Love,
sap be always of mine,
in the fantasy that,
Manuela, my Love,
fluid be always of yours.

All rights belong to its author. It was published on by demand of Mauro Montacchiesi.
Published on on 05/29/2023.


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