Catography # 48. “We were born…”


We were born on the ridge of the mountain after a summer storm.
Our first cry and our first look were concealed by the roar and thunder.
Our first breath the smell of wet earth.
Our steps always on the tip of mild and light leg.
We always need a sincere and spontaneous gesture, our feet seeking nests hands warm and cozy refuges of hugs, sincere voices and enveloping emotions.
We turn your head and we see our rough path dotted with pieces of ourselves in front of us, our future mirrored in who we walking by.
Just a whisper to excite us, we are quivering clouds in the blue sky, and the first star serotina, the last to be decreasing in the aurora.
Do not ask us to humans, ask the wind and rain, those who smile and cry alone, who will break your nails to climb the mountain that can not be scaled, who has tumbled down, who exceeds green valleys. Who do we look not to those who know us and found us not look for us.
Only those who have our dark path crucibolo can see us, touch us, love us.
Another waltz, one just before the lightning and the thunder take us home.
Over there.
Where children can run between the drops of rain, and must not remain motionless so that their tears we get lost inside …


Catography # 47. “Shell”

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Why there has to be this damn soil mixed with tears and pain between me and you? This shell of ice as snowy chrysalis, which flakes off myself in tiny flakes of human waste heat in constant search of a compassion for you now foreign to this world, living only a few souls in desperate and obstinate resistance?
With a battered emotional shield, under a destructive rain, a gust of wind at white heat, in free fall to nowhere, I am looking for your leg and your hand.

Catography # 46. “Dawn”


Dawn as the sun peeked between the snow-capped mountains, a small sentry scanning the horizon absorbing the first light of day. It was a cat among the waves of warm grass expanses, I saw him in the distance as I walked along the lonely road and we looked.
And I saw …

On the sunny hillocks of life, beyond the ears of miscanthus quivering at sunset breeze, next to the fence, wedged between rows of roses, clematis and aromatic plants, there is a narrow road that winds downhill all pebbles and stones, marked by the legs cats and worn shoes.
Cobbles, lolled a blackbird without haste or purpose, browsing the insects lonely on the sun-scorched grass, here and there the air is moving discreetly, by condensing it melted down into the valley. Lazily down, over the steps, past the smudged footprints, it was scattered in the garden, near the big pink.
Inside a small house, through the door, over a cool sienna-colored brick paving, there was a red arabesque chair. On this, speckled with crimson shadows, there was a cat.
He always had a light, affectionate approach and deep cast for all, him.
But now, its white fringe fell heavily on his forehead piombigna, the blue-gray eyes screamed a silent room, while screaming, against his will, had to yell at his friends, his
brothers, even if he never wanted to, go, shouted.
He was found alone.
The cat looked up. Got out of the back of the chair, crossed his friend hearth, the angle of the food, he went into his bedroom. He looked long bed with the blanket flowers. He peered under.
He saw the box in which he was suffering and had suffered his brother, decent and hidden altar and refuge.
She heard a buzz slipping gloomy inside his bones.
He saw a man jump at breakneck speed down the stairs.
She smiled, though the other could not see him.
He was afraid, so afraid, and that they go on to say that there are the heroes, who are not afraid and crap like that.
“Yes of course, it takes more courage to face my evil face death, yes, I am really a hero, dammit. Now leave me alone, I have to do … “he muttered to himself and to life, illness and his pain.
His voice was like a frondare serotine leaves caressed by the wind.
He heard a man throw at breakneck speed down the stairs.
But death had already broken and he was crashing to the ground.

The vision hit the man as a black wave, raised his hand before his face, as if it would do any good. He felt the mouth mixed with anger and pain mixed with the acres tears, eyes shut, he felt the agonizing grip of something inside him trying to support it, to keep it alive, we put all of herself, she was cursing while she was shaking inside him for the effort.
“When will it end?” He asked the man, before a dark hood fell on him. And all that was left to man was a vision that made him blind forever …

Catography # 44. “Fog”

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Sometimes I disperse the mist and my thought is like a wisp of smoke from the crackling grass crystallized by hoarfrost.
Lose for a moment the path and horizon. Friends are confused in the fog and I stagger, in hushed silence, snowy.
But then the sun always comes back and mine, our old and never lost the path regains its reason to exist and to resist.

A volte mi disperdo nella nebbia e il mio pensiero é come un filo di fumo crepitante fra l’erba cristallizzata dalla galaverna.
Perdo per qualche attimo sentiero e orizzonte. Gli amici si confondono nella nebbia e io barcollo, nel silenzio ovattato, niveo.
Ma poi torna sempre il sole e il mio, il nostro vecchio e mai perduto sentiero ritrova la sua ragione per esistere e resistere.

Catography # 43. “Home”



We dream of talking to the other guys. Those living outside. We hear their distant voices carried on the north of our perennial December.
And there was someone like us, but now different from us, telling us that we are like a house, we need a heart and three shelters …
A terrace where to spread our sad and melancholy look, looking for eyes distant in time and space.
A large lounge and cozy, with the fireplace lit, in front of which the same shapes but different sitting next to us in contact with the earth, chattering all the time in the world, laughing like two children.
And an attic, with nice skylights … an attic with all our past, where all our memories dance free and happy …
All this and much more in your embrace, you are our blanket, hot and scratchy and rough times, but interwoven with the warps and wefts of our lives.

Sogniamo di parlare con gli altri ragazzi. Quelli che vivono fuori. Sentiamo le loro voci lontane trasportate sulla tramontana del nostro Dicembre perenne.
E c’era qualcuno come noi, ma ora diverso da noi, che ci diceva che noi siamo come una casa, che abbiamo bisogno di un cuore e di tre rifugi…
Un terrazzo dove far dilagare il nostro sguardo triste e malinconico, alla ricerca di occhi lontani nel tempo e nello spazio.
Un salotto grande e accogliente, con il focolare acceso, davanti al quale le forme uguali ma diverse siedono vicino a noi, a contatto con la terra, chiaccherando per tutto il tempo del mondo, ridendo come due bimbi.
E una soffitta, con dei bei lucernari… una soffitta con tutto il nostro passato, dove tutti i nostri ricordi danzano liberi e felici…
Tutto questo e molto altro nel vostro abbraccio, siete la nostra coperta, calda e a volte ruvida e graffiante, ma intrecciata con le trame e gli orditi delle nostre vite.

Catography # 42. “Shell of dreams”


I could live in a shell of dreams and believe to be myself if it were not for these nightmares.
Or the ethereal nature of a faint nebulosity that stands barely at the bottom of the sky, concealed by artificial light, visible to the eye, mate hotbed of clouds of ionized hydrogen in the universe edges, with the voice and the colors of absorption lines of the first stars. With red and green clouds swept by the wave of primal shock, on wave of disintegration, supported by dreamlike bearing probabilistic.
Or just a distant mirage, a flickering at the edges of an eye feline riding the red spot of Jupiter by rediscovering its roots and its essence, with the scorched face and withered by time, constantly pointed toward the maelstrom of life.
Long life to you, Captain.

Potrei vivere in un guscio di sogni e credere di essere me stesso se non fosse per questi incubi.
O la natura eterea di una tenue nebulosità’ che si staglia a malapena sul fondo del cielo, celata dalla luce artificiale, visibile con la coda dell’occhio, fucina gemella di nubi di idrogeno ionizzato al lembi dell’universo, con la voce e i colori delle righe in assorbimento delle prime stelle. Con le nubi rosse e verdi spazzate dall’onda d’urto primordiale, sull’onda del dissolvimento, sostenuta da oniriche portanti probabilistiche.
O solo un miraggio lontano, un baluginare ai lembi di un occhio felino che cavalca la macchia rossa di Giove, riscoprendo le sue radici e la sua essenza, con il muso riarso e disseccato dal tempo, puntato perennemente verso il maelstrom della vita.
Lunga vita a te, Capitano.