The Texts



(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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