wave black, red, rotten.
seaweed
worried frown
reel as it unfolds.
around, the sound of death
echoes between the gills atrophied properties of mummies.
A look at the sky.
A horizon of powder ash
smoke
steam. While everything dies
crackle merrily stacks.
Another waltz between the wings of storks
useless ornaments that will invade the oceans.
the streets
heaps of rubble unlikely
barely scratched by the reflections of the sun
blinded with rage.
all comes down to the valley of yawns
nell'incuria
volunteers who keep silent, eyes and mouths and eyes are sewn
the killers of the profit.
A child plays among rotting carcasses
mirrors and murky waters.
From school books are missing many words
and the green of a lawn does not explain.
"What would be nice if there were other colors,"
think the baby.
Instead, everything is gray, black, everything is blood.
"Is it possible that whoever created the world
did not think the wishes of a child?".
"There must be other words while waiting to be discovered."
Then, dig up an old book.
Images of forests, lakes, seas.
Portraits of flower meadows.
Pictures with strange animals.
"Yes", the child thinks, "this was the ancient world
.
He is a doubt
"Maybe it was not so bad," he thinks.
"Of course, I now have a mobile generation,
but nothing to be photographed."
And while the game continues,
between debris and mud on another day is down the curtain
and night is only the harbinger of last awakening.
Tomorrow, at dawn
that child may already essere morto dal suo stesso
inghiottito respiro. Enrico
Danna, poeta maledetto (Italy)
0 comments:
Post a Comment