Broken glasses on our floor
(the floor which saw us dancing,
the floor where our love were enchained)
after the rumble of your iron words.
The roots of love existence have dug,
strangling the moist soil
with the grasp of a frightened fist.
After dreaming about peaceful Orient
we have strengthen our passion
freed from vices and past lives’ thorns
hanging by our shadows.
We began the dance, hand in hand,
eye in eye, chest to chest.
Unable to hold our senses
We loved each other.
Life is a God joke.
The width of your back
always stands my indecisions.
If it’s raining today – after long time – is for you
because you’re opening my eyelids, my eyes
and make my convictions dripped wet
by buried purities in the bedroom,
the one we had, that we have here too.
But, sure, it’s different.
It’s not the same width that belonged to us,
smaller hands, smaller ideas,
but dreams magnify remote days,
those where memories are eaten
with empty stomach, where the future
is sculpted by cramps.
If the night I badly breath is for the air
that’s burning along the tunnel where my voice
Your elbow saves me from nocturnal sleep apnoea.
If I turn round I find you intact, crystallized
In the love that wanted me: I wanted to be
your first love. As if it were the last.
Living with you
is ever living,
but always living
with the fright
of your absence.
If I had the sacred certainty
of seeing you
until the last day,
I’d discover our eyes again, the same,
in the grooves of your face,
through dilatations of time.
If I had this sacred certainty
I’d even think of smiling to the death,
‘cause she should be scared of
our intimate harmonies of love.
Translation by Valentina Calista