moving out
1
in this apartment left empty now
many voices gather to find reflection
on the white walls staring severely
from where harlequin posters stood,
on the shelves that in the guard robe
have no more the wisdom of books.
Objects once thought lost
have been dug up into a new air
whispering the memories of times gone
revealed in the sadnesses for the uses
one has grown to live without
before turning silent once again
in the darkness of the closed boxes
like rocks fallen down from the quakes that shook the earth.
2
There is so much to be heard here
if only there was time to linger on it
the fantasies removed from the hangers
swarm as a flock of migratory swans
asking for a place to be nesting in
where the dishes and cutlery used to dwell in
in the gestures they once lifted and sustained
while stretching to dreams they made achievable
as they rise now from the dust to meet you again
with a wisdom that has come to late
suggesting to stay to talk about different possibilities
impressed in the emptiness dominated by abandoned furniture.
3
Like this mug with a drawn flower
that stands alone in the bare kitchen;
it carries a life cycle of its own
when the seed of a belief
was warmed by joined hands
and planted in the talks of shared mornings
where its shy stem rose in the nourishment of thirsty lips,
fool blossoming with pouring feelings from rainbow clouds
to enrich the eternal garden of linked sighs,
before the eyes turned apart from each other sustainment
and the growing vegetations around it run out of sap
leaving the flower's swinging petals
winking in loneliness at the drying shelves
that carry the mug prayer left lifeless
for new circulating lymph that can gather
flowing rivers in the blossoming of used cupboards.
4
The old bed, ancient teller of passions,
dismantled of its skeleton of boards and bolts,
recounts the heat of the person recorded in it
as its plumes and scents are slowly exhaled
in the still cold of the stripped bedroom,
a manifesto of sterility where warmth did not clutch
to be transplanted in the untouched womb of a new flat
where the stories of furniture to rear
offer the birth of ghosts marching in the halo
of the virgin floor not yet scratched by feet,
among the soundless gap of the generating flat
where the broken shells of its fertilized egg
will give birth to a cosmos of flowing insecurities
revolving on a dweller that can hold its edges.
5
And in these keys that lock the door
all is screaming and asking to be left asleep
while its departure can be less than ever forgotten,
as the gaze is moving the horizons toward another flat
like a ship leaving the deck with its cargo of counted goods
and map of theoretical definition of the winds
with no record of the roars that waves carry
and in the sail thrown open for breezes to lift it
has nothing to anticipate of its voyages with
of what will keep it spread in the known desire
to march toward landscapes recognized only
by the wish to have the known land behind.
6
To be moving toward the unknown destination,
the mischievous clouds rising at the horizon to form
frowning brows of a face engulfing the future,
that nothing reveals of what it will disclose,
whose crystal pupils dropping inject fear in the traveller,
that to be ready for ravaging battles all around itself,
builds up a solid armour to shelter its timid fire
and to suck the life out of the surroundings
to conquer samples proving its superiority
that could match its desire of having achieved something
with a land made a dry in the attempt;
a land from where the exhalation of blind hopes
will rise in the waiting of a comfortable breeze
to which release the desire for solid arms
sustaining the pillars of the sky where,
the wax of sequestered sap can be devoted
with the puffs of the traveller's intimate fire
in the knitting of the private voice
around the sounds that foams carry,
like a mermaid finding its choir
from the cliff closed by the sea mane rage.
7
In these boxes standing quiet,
the snares of necessity pulsing within,
close around the labelling fingers,
the snake with the eagle in the boughs,
and seem to offer no space for breath
their destination already established
all the chances of dancing already doomed
reduced to be begging only fro what as already been told
to no space for spontaneous beat
as if the light was all consumed
by thorny hedgerows scratching that skin
that tries to wriggle its way out
in an always last consuming attempt
to wreathe the blessing of brushing light
in the revolution of a bleeding dress,
where the tears of the sun
gather along the spinning skirt
in blooming roses smiling at the throne of dawn.
8
Tomorrow's dust will come to seal
today work for creating lasting results
from yesterday's ashes;
the breath of a consuming life
in the hope of a nest to call one's own
to match fearful thoughts with flesh
given to the altar of eroding time
and guarantee the awakening of a shelter
that will survive the night needs for destruction
when the running fingers of the morning awaken
the choking belief that everything must start anew
few objects gathered, few bodies
the furniture keep safe in the privacy of a mind
to be built in the mirror of a breath
pulsing daily with the rhythm of the work
to rise up to the certainty that something has survived
in the few objects and bodies reflected in,
for a days that cannot step over the gathering in dreams
of the life to be nourished within its hopes.
Like in the stillness of a Greek fresco
where all movements are frozen and interrupted
that in the viewers flare up a vision of songs
for the jests and actions still to be taken beyond
time eternal dwelling where time has not its last word.
