If the wheel gets caught in the tangle of streamers
and the horse rears up from the crowd, if it snows
hands through his hair and a long chill of irises
transcurrent or raise the children
ocarinas
feeble that greet your trip echoes and mild flaking off the bridge over the river
fading if the road leads you into a world
blown by a tremulous
bubble and light where the sun greets the
Your grace-perhaps you've found the road
tried
molten lead for a moment at midnight when
ended the quiet year without shots.
And now you want to stay where a filter is
bare sounds, and in consequence the smiling
acrid fumes that will make up tomorrow
hours get the country where wild donkeys
bite pictures of sugar from your hands and stubby trees
snack sprouts
miraculous to the beak of the peacocks.
(Oh, your carnival will be even more sad tonight
mine, closed in for the gifts you
absent: battle
shades of rose oil, puppets and muskets,
rubber balls, tools, kitchen
Lilliputians: the 'urn marked
them to distant friends each time
that is hatched in January and was accomplished in silence
the spell.
E 'carnival or December still linger?
I think if you move the pointer to the small
watch that bears his wrist, everything
arretrerà prism
undone in a Babel of shapes and colors ...)
And Christmas will come and the day of the year
that the fading barracks and brings you back
friends scattered and
this carnival will be back even though it now escapes us
between the walls is cracking already.
ask you to stop the clock on
country that stretches around? The large wings speckled
caress the lodges
propel open
slender blonde dolls, live, the windmills
rotano fixed upon the pools garrulous.
Ask to hold the bells
silver above the village and the raucous sound of the doves
? Ask the mornings
you fearful of your distant shores?
As everything becomes strange and difficult
as everything is impossible, you say.
Your life is here where the wheels of the carts rumbling
ceaselessly back and nothing except perhaps
these mistakes as possible.
Back there among the dead toys
where it is denied even to die, and in time that beats you
wrist and restores you to the existence, within the walls
heavy
does not open to the abyss of human fatigued, back
with you on the street where
saddens me that he pointed to a frozen lead
alle mie, alle tue sere:
torna alle primavere che non fioriscono.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/lafranzine/5481177221/in/photostream/
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