Appena oltre, il rumore del bosco.
Lingue sconosciute fatte di rami spezzati, frullare di ali, sibili striscianti, singulti, richiami. E poi, l'improvviso silenzio, lo stormire delle fronde al tocco ora delicato ora brusco della brezza. Il vento che porta la tempesta. Il vento che porta voci lontane, risa di bambini, imprecazioni, echi indefinibili di parole confuse. Echi a percorrere la valle, a infiltrarsi tra i sentieri ancora umidi di rugiada, tracce di uomini, tracce di animali.
Luce che filtra e gioca tra i tronchi.
I think it was June. I remember the amber waves of grain while driving slowly in those secondary roads lined with trees.
Bold and proud, they seemed to defy the sky.
Tall and vigorous, they talked of an ancient magnificence, strengthen by the severity of the times they have experienced.
And then, there they were: red spots, and white spots, and green spots for sure, but I swear I saw also wriggles of lapislatzuli and stains of topaz and blades of emerald and sobs of ruby and flashes of gold, among those amber waves that moved gently.
Dust rose from the border of the road, and faded away in the air.
I think it was June, and I was in the middle of nowhere, among hills and fields and country roads of gravel, and white dust.
And the houses were far away, and troubles were far away, and the mind was free and open and excited.
Talk Talk on the radio. Happiness is easy.
The sense of belonging, the sense of being one.
I was used to split the hairs, and argue about the world and its inner choices. I was used to stare at the sky, I admit it, but my feet were planted deep in the earth and my arms crossed, as a shield.
Many were the paths, and I swear I knew well the one I had to catch. No doubts at all, although things around spoke different languages, and the horizons changed so fast, under that annoying wind.
Not sure even now of when and why, not sure of a reason, nor if there was one.
Claiming the here and now, claiming the best, I lost my direction.
But the major mistake was to believe there were one.
Same old story, again and again.
"I second that", I say. "You cannot", you replayed. "It's just a game, and we all are pawns, and what we do and how we move is just written by someone else", I said.
You stared at me with anger and emotion, your eyes wet and proud.
"And so? Are you going to leave the game just because you fear not to win? It is unfair, my love. And, all the more, it's useless 'cause there is no winning move, and the game is rigged".
"And those names and faces and voices you care so much, all of them, all of them are just illusions and yet real. As real as you are. Because they are you".
Nebbia vaga di stagione incerta
Alba ancora chiusa in scrigni di sogni contorti
Topazio di colore sbagliato
Gemma di rugiada in primavere senza tempo
Di te di nuovo ho sognato
Ombra incastonata su mura graffiate e forti
Indifferenti al mondo quasi fossero esse stesse il mondo
Non prender per vero ciò che appare
E le riflessioni dei più, considerale con la sufficienza dovuta
Elementare ancora di salvezza
Quando troppo rumore intorno vorrebbe dirti ciò che non è
Una terra generosa ha ancora spazio per altre radici
E l'aria è già quella di una primavera che sa dare il calore che promette
Stories and novels, stories and shades of words. Sapphire can be a voice, a whisper, a night talk. Colours in words, words merged and melted with pictures. Words as colours, words as shapes sometimes overlapping with the visual experience. A different way to see the world or, maybe, just the very same way using different tools and finding different paths.