Mauro Montacchiesi

IN THE GLISSANDO OF AN ILLUSORY HARP

Drops of weeping,
like grains
of hyaline quartz,
salty descend
from the moistened pupils,
on the feelings of the past,
on real pains,
on the spasms of imagination.
They etch the faces of simulacra,
too inlaid,
with the glided-away errors,
remote now,
of green my mad age.
With exhilarating delirium,
the errors
led me,
by the hand,
to the abjuration of rules,
but that was the time.

Omnia tempus habent
(Everything has its time-Ecclesiastes)

Heavenly Mother,
I would like you to see
the liquid pain,
corrosive,
flowing on my face,
meltingpot of psychedelic
chimeras in pain.
I wish you could see
the torment
that transcends infinite space,
in embedded instants,
between watermarks of oxide.
The soul shrinks,
like a heart in systole,
in a universe
barren of passion,
where no longer twinkle stars,
nor galaxies.
In the darkness,
the soul,
the heart,
they swell again,
in the glissando of an illusory harp,
in the counterpoints 
of a melopoeia of the mind,
of a bittersweet nostalgia.

Drops of weeping,
like grains
of hyaline quartz,
salty descend
from the moistened pupils,
on the feelings of the past,
on real pains,
on the spasms of imagination.
They etch the faces of simulacra,
too inlaid,
with the glided-away errors,
remote now,
of green my mad age.
With exhilarating delirium,
the errors
led me,
by the hand,
to the abjuration of rules,
but that was the time.

Omnia tempus habent
(Everything has its time-Ecclesiastes)

Heavenly Mother,
I would like you to see
the liquid pain,
corrosive,
flowing on my face,
meltingpot of psychedelic
chimeras in pain.
I wish you could see
the torment
that transcends infinite space,
in embedded instants,
between watermarks of oxide.
The soul shrinks,
like a heart in systole,
in a universe
barren of passion,
where no longer twinkle stars,
nor galaxies.
In the darkness,
the soul,
the heart,
they swell again,
in the glissando of an illusory harp,
in the counterpoints 
of a melopoeia of the mind,
of a bittersweet nostalgia.

 

Toutes les droites appartiennent à son auteur Il a été publié sur e-Stories.org par la demande de Mauro Montacchiesi.
Publié sur e-Stories.org sur 20.09.2014.

 
 

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