Poem
Monica Martinelli
55
You cleave your way through the fabrics of the nightwith what is separate but still a part of you
and beats like a heart, in her,
she who opens like rose petals,
who smells of sadness and wisteria
and sees her own life parade
along in a mirror without images.
You belong to him and he does not want to leave you,
flesh tight and tense
to feel the warmth and the rush
of blood that a few tears
attempt to dilute.
The skin becomes dirt that crumbles
and slides on the feeling of being there
to remember that a body
is not a surface that breathes and sighs
but instead a fallen star of the universe,
a quasar smiling crazy with light.
While the trade winds blow in the distance
along our timeless path.
55
55
Ti vai varco fra i tessuti della nottecon cio che è separato ma è parte di te
e pulsa come un cuore, in lei
che si schiude come petali di rosa,
lei che profuma di glicine e tristezza
e vede sfilare la sua vita
in uno specchio senza immagine.
Gli appartieni e non vuole lasciarti,
la carne contratta e tesa
per sentire il calore e lo scroscio
del sangue che qualche lacrima
prova a diluire.
La pelle diventa terra che si sgrana
e scivola sull’emozione di esserci
per rammentare che un corpo
non è una superficie che respira e geme
ma una stella dell’universo caduta giù,
un quasar che sorride impazzito di luce.
Mentre alisei soffiano a distanza
sul nostro percorso senza tempo.
From: L’abitudine degli occhi
Publisher: Passigli Editori, Firenze
Publisher: Passigli Editori, Firenze
Poems
Poems of Monica Martinelli
Close
55
You cleave your way through the fabrics of the nightwith what is separate but still a part of you
and beats like a heart, in her,
she who opens like rose petals,
who smells of sadness and wisteria
and sees her own life parade
along in a mirror without images.
You belong to him and he does not want to leave you,
flesh tight and tense
to feel the warmth and the rush
of blood that a few tears
attempt to dilute.
The skin becomes dirt that crumbles
and slides on the feeling of being there
to remember that a body
is not a surface that breathes and sighs
but instead a fallen star of the universe,
a quasar smiling crazy with light.
While the trade winds blow in the distance
along our timeless path.
From: L’abitudine degli occhi
From ‘L’abitudine degli occhi’ (The habitude of the eyes)
55
You cleave your way through the fabrics of the nightwith what is separate but still a part of you
and beats like a heart, in her,
she who opens like rose petals,
who smells of sadness and wisteria
and sees her own life parade
along in a mirror without images.
You belong to him and he does not want to leave you,
flesh tight and tense
to feel the warmth and the rush
of blood that a few tears
attempt to dilute.
The skin becomes dirt that crumbles
and slides on the feeling of being there
to remember that a body
is not a surface that breathes and sighs
but instead a fallen star of the universe,
a quasar smiling crazy with light.
While the trade winds blow in the distance
along our timeless path.
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