Poetry

*** The room we stand in now Is full of desire, Of the desire in these Oversized almond eyes, Of the desire that leaves Watermarks of Nature - The great…

*** Who is my translator In this foreign world? Will I ever cross The thermal baths Of Bagno Vignoni With a burning candle Consecrated To love on Earth? Is it…

*** I became immune To rains, Old photographs, Pine needles Under my feet - all fleeting contents, To perpetual good-byes to objects and people, The species of strawberry I buy…

*** It was winter. I had lunch with my dog at the lake town, On the shopping street full of movement - Where people were sort of “homeless”. I was…

*** Besides the poems, What do I like to do? Hmmm... Hunting! Hunting your eyes, of course, To ward off homesickness. They are my horse-drawn vehicles On rutted and foggy…

*** Black rainstorm - warning signal, alarm bells about our changing climate, rain as a sign of the apocalypse, exceptional cold over my Siberia, where average temperatures reached as low…

*** It paves roads where previously there were none. It attracts people to the inner shores, Mortals who would otherwise be at dinners: Restaurant waiters, joggers, risk-seekers. The bluish mist…

*** The eyes, which promised magic, Fleetingly become alive Projected on the facades of presepi, The aprons Of Italian wives. The eyes, which harboured fealty, Jump on the snow sledge…

*** We invent scenes and characters That don’t exist, We replay history with alternative outcomes, We envision social and love utopias, We revel in imagination and arts, And we muse…