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| Claudia Piccinno |
in the unspoken decision,
in the crowded expanses
in the shown derision.
Be aware of the loving utterances.
Bow down to my ravings.
Read every accent
as if it was gospel
and do not be afraid of the baleful wrath
because it is more honest
than the repeated flattery,
than the silence that falls when you arrive,
than the unsafe desire to appear.
Wastelands invoke oblivion.
Could a source gushing
absinthe drops mixed with morphine
and could lull the winds that shake memories.
A breeze that calms or a tornado that awake itself
however the sun is ready to heat
these debordate lands
these expanses stressed
by the storm of madness
by the indolence of rationality
by the envy of the losers.
At the dawn of a new day
I will wait for you
but the path will already be filled
with fresh sprouts to perfume
these my wastelands
that will bloom in green meadows inside me.
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