Bagaglio, Brezinka, ottobre 2015

Abito da sera…

ginocchiere

odore di fumo

Annunci

Murter, Croazia settembre 2015

Cara N.

oggi sull’isola soffia il vento freddo del nord, che spazza via con violenza le nubi, i cattivi pensieri, e tutto ciò che incontra, ma la gente di qui lo preferisce al vento caldo e umido del sud… dicono che renda folli.

Sono a Murter in Dalmazia centrale, i venti si chiamano Bura e Jugo.

I’m the moon… let me in!

White swan in the river,
the eye of cathedrals,
false dawn in the leaves,
am I. They cannot hide!
Who can escape? Who sobs
in the valley’s tangle?
The moon leaves a knife
behind in the air,
a lead-coloured trap
that seeks blood’s cry.
Let me in! I come frozen
through walls and windows!
Open roofs and breasts
where I can be warmed!
I’m chilled! My ashes
of somnolent metals
seek the crown of the fire
among streets and mountains.
But I bring the snow
to their shoulders of jasper,
and I flood, cold and harsh,
the depths of the lakes.
But this night my cheeks
will be stained with red blood,
and the reeds clustered
in wide swathes of air.
I have no shadow,
nowhere they can hide!
Let me enter a breast
where I can be warmed!
A heart of my own!
Burning! Spilling itself
on the hills of my breast;
Let me come in! Oh, let me!
No shadow. My rays
must shine everywhere,
and in dark of the trees
spread a rumour of dawn,
so my cheeks this night
will be stained with red blood,
and the reeds clustered
in wide swathes of air.
Who’s that hiding! Speak out!
No! There’s no escape!
I’ll make the horse gleam