The Texts

TRANSLATION:

(Evasione di un’idea) Escape of an idea

Two twisted  irons, it’s only my fantasy

to emerge fly from the hole of one reality,

of an idea  built on  my age,

a moment’s escape,  perhaps it will pass ,

as the wind  flying and killing the tears of  one person,

the dream of a king,

a newborn memory  is dead above me,  you see across the emptiness

The time remains to conquer a shadow of glass

in which your tired paper warrior turns black,

closed in his lament

perhaps it’ll pass like  the wind

that whirls and wears  the stone,

meanwhile that scream will wake,

a song of joy will explode, one day more

 

(Eroi invincibili …son solo i pensieri)  Invincible heroes…are only thoughts

It’s the fourth month and already I’m losing

the temple that I don’t know I own

Yes,  I’ll lose my name forever, or not

 Burnt meadows beneath a thousand  emotions

recall a  desperate April,

I don’t know  what sounds will first rise

 Invincible heroes  are only the thoughts

akin to  indescribable contours

of course, I played my cards in desert  lagoons

 You don’t seek search Greek commas anymore

Invincible heroes  are only thoughts

 Familiar paths are forced to meander

slithering over layers of madness,

running or drowning  in bitter lost chances

 

(Riflessi indicativi) Significant reflections

Waxen jars in the palaces  are pouring mud on passers

Rich word-merchants sell the sun  for half – price

Without  permission from Helios, who  no longer drives his chariot

and you don’t feel regret anymore, only  the reflections of a morning

 Long expanses of calls, they  hurl webs of crystal

black corals of Morane adorn strange buildings

with the pretences  of people  who can’t bear

and  you don’t’ remember the past, examples painted  from history

 Rare moments of silence, steal space from your plans

Fragile objects of Tong-Guan fall on the pavement

But  don’t give in to glory, a sign of a lost spontaneity,

by now you sit in the night, gazing at the distant light

 

(Secondo Dubbio) Second doubt

 The straight  trees remain killed from the fog

over the ruins of one hundred curtains encircling the thought

it’s the end of an event truly important for who is still believing

that his live and his true aim will  finish here

 Old memories paint a main over a line

as in a lost point in the middle of my seven sun

few words are not useful to write a story of anger,

for  who avoided, for who escaped  beyond the fog

 What courage permits again the will of a sky  missing in the void

behind the power  hidden in two or three books learned  by heart

story of anger truly important for who is still believing

that his people was unable to see beyond the fog

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