Category: Poesia


You no more than road under my wings

Yet more than every minute spent

Battling over dreams never dreamed

Men never loved

Thoughts and actions never put to fruition

Theater words made for tragedies and stories of woe

Far away in the decades

I spent learning

we are not mirrors

but black holes made to devour

and waiting to implode

You still more than every length I walked.

Annunci

“You fell in love with my flowers but not with my roots, so when Autumn arrived you didn’t know what to do.”
– (via c-oquetry)

Bright light, almost blinding
Black night, still there shining
I can’t stop, keep on climbing
Looking for what I knew
Had a friend, she once told me
“You got love, you ain’t lonely”
Now she’s gone and left me only, looking for what I knew
~ Led Zeppelin

We all need a little beauty in life…

This is my fifth one (the big one, little is a gift for a couple that just married)…counting the ones Ti has at his flat also mine…. Me VERY obsessed 😁

 

Sto riascoltando i Nightwish dopo un’assenza di anni dalle mie playlist giornaliere.

E come tornare indietro di dieci anni per me (li avevo scoperti per caso fra il 2008 e il 2009).

O ancora più indietro, negli anni della mia infanzia a passare la notte con una torcia, un atlante e il naso rivolto all’insù per scovare le costellazioni.

Gli anni che ho passato ad ascoltarli on repeat quando il mondo aveva perso tutti i colori.
Quando io non sapevo più chi ero in realtà e tutto ciò che aveva un senso risiedeva proprio lì nelle mani di Tuom e compagni.

Sembra impossibile eppure i NW mi entusiasmano ancora adesso, adesso che sono lontana anni luce e ad ascoltarli mi viene la pelle d’oca.

Ho riletto DOR in parallelo ed è stato un connubio perfetto.

Quella fic, tutto il tempo speso a scriverla, tutte le notti passate a chiedermi che senso aveva quando in realtà ero totalmente incapace di prendere in mano ciò che restava della mia vita.

Sorrido ora nel pensare che DOR ha avuto un discreto successo solo perché ho vissuto per scrivere quella storia.

Allora non volevo ammetterlo ma ora non mi vergogno più: se non l’avessi scritta probabilmente non sarei qui a parlarne oggi.

Ho incontrato anche molte persone allora, persone che oramai non ho più sentito da un po’ ma è ok…eravamo unite da un comune amore per i NW e son sicura che nessuno di noi proverebbe niente se non un po’ di malinconia nel guardar indietro ma con un sorriso sulle labbra per tutto quello che abbiamo condiviso.

Sto guardando le stelle stanotte, un bel po’ più a Nord dell’ultima volta.

L’aria è umida e si fa tardi.

E Tuomas Holopainen ha sempre ragione su tutta la linea.

Story of your life
Time of solitude and strife
Freedom of an open road
Hope, and many miles to go
Promises to keep
Countless goldfields to reap
To be rich is to seek
To relive a memory

All the strangers on your path
Crossroads, the letters from home
The cooling embers of a Yuletide hearth
All the sounds of wilderness
The truth in which you roamed
Now your lost Rosebud has brought you back home

[Tuomas Holopainen ~ A lifetime of Adventure]

4560

Into an eclipse we run.

Not scared, barely able to breathe.

Sunlight black.

Keep the car running, never look back.

For distance is nothing when you’re not counting it with miles.

Time looks up, pushes you down, drops venom between your eyes.

No, we will never stop.

There is no shore, no security, no wings.

Only a one-way road in front of us.

We will die on a mirror, searching for truth and lies.

 

IMG_20190601_113547IMG_20190601_113559

Not every old thing can be fixed, but new ones might be found.

~ by someone somewhere I don’t quite remember when but the thought is rather stuck in my mind now.

Sera, tramonto, dopocena, quindi Ti alla guida della chevrolet darling ed è già notte.
“Do you have a thing for him, Fräulein?”
“Whom?”
rispondo, senza pensare mentre controllo lo smartphone.
Silenzio.
Blocco lo schermo e mi volto a guardarlo, il profilo illuminato dai lampioni.
“What were you talking about?”
“Leave it.”
“You sure?”
Non aggiunge niente mentre l’auto corre a velocità stabile fra gallerie e macchie di luna calante.
“Ti.”
“Yes?”
“Have I ever watched someone else the way I look at you?”
No, le fatidiche paroline non mi sono ancora uscite ed inizio a credere che non mi usciranno mai.
Rimane però che fra me e lui non ci sono ombre, un vero record a questo giro di boa.
“Fräulein.”
“Yes?”
“Want breakfast?”
“Famished.”
“Good, my treat, after that is your turn to drive us home.”
“‘kay.”
“SLOWLY.”

Sometimes there’s much more in the hidden thoughts, the unsaid words, the laughter and the quiet.
Running back where everything started.
We haven’t changed.
We are still here.
The first day we met was a dark day, full of bitter facets and scorn.
Yet you’ve came and stayed.
I can be hard at times, evil and difficult.
Still you’re here and you make my world revolve.

4325

There was a ring I never took off when I was no more than a teen girl.
It wasn’t valuable, found it dirty and dusty at the end of a drawer in a long before abandoned house.
It missed a little tiny diamond on its cast and it was so tiny in size I could only wear it on my left ring finger.
The center stone was a smoothed out ruby with a square shape.
But the beauty in it was not the stones.
It was in the fine work on the silver.
The thin veneers running along the sides in fragile, intricate leaves that could only be made by hand and with skill.
I never seen since a work like that ever.
It fitted my finger to the point I thought it was made for me and me alone.
It was probably just a cheap trinket bought at a fair or something like that in the time when my grandmother was just a young girl.
She’s 96 now, I’m 30 and the ring is still with me.
Worthless and consumed, but the silver still shines and fits somewhat.
The leaves are still there and they mean a world never gone to me.
Afternoons and evenings, card games and teas, red roses and blue hydrangeas.

You have forgotten, Gran.
I did not.
You can’t remember.
I shall do it for you for all the time I’m still given on this Earth.

tea-party-sharing-tea-with-grandma-1936-mike-savad

[coloured photo by Mike Savad]
[https://pixels.com/featured/tea-party-sharing-tea-with-grandma-1936-mike-savad.html]

Oh,

Those shades leaden with so near blinding sun heat.

Black asphalt to run on carefree.

Me double mirrored on his sunglasses.

No places to be.

Sand under my naked feet.

Sweet smelling jasmine and ice-mint whiskeys.

My big dark blue straw hat, yes just the one that gives me that 30s diva look and he always fingers up to watch my eyes.

And that road never-ending under a sky so blue.

I was just so happy in those 3 days, Ti.

The sea scent lingering, the torches still lit and the laughter ringing in my ears.

“Are you daydreaming, Fräulein?”

“What if I do?”

“Keep your dreams close.”

I just smile, tightening my hold on his hand.

“I think I shall.”

Ancient weary eyes looking at you from a youthful face.

As old as you feel, bones creaking and all.

A bed too small to lay on, midnight noon sweltering outside.

Heavy music from static-laden speakers, music so old no-one remembers it.

You don’t even remember when or where you met him, just the look in his eyes.

The too old holey t-shirt, the battered leather jacket and scuffed doctor martens.

Not uttering a word, laying there.

And every year past seems longer than ever watching those eyes dilating.

Future remains beyond, full of things you’ll never know until it’s their time.

The record’s playing, the air is still.

The wolf in your bed hums, as meek as a lamb.

As the sun scorches a thousand licking flames.

“Your eyes are blue, very odd.”

“Still blue? I thought not.”

“Very blue. How come?”

Lick your lips, no sweat over your upper lip, and smile.

“I was born with them.”

Somewhere a hammond is playing and the spirit soars.

Never will you learn how young is he in his old years.

Until you’ll be shown.

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