Category Archives: Poetically

Poetically

@ 25 Poetically: THE GIFTS OF YESTERDAY

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I was at the post office recently. I was in line to pick up some books that I had ordered. Some seniors were not happy arrival of Christmas. They did not have much money to offer some gift his grandchildren. The tone their voice showed a paradox, because it was trembling for the sorrow and guilt for the happiness of being able to see again. They felt a strange shame to a sense of inadequacy – What I can offer but simple objects or some money that it will be less of their weekly pay? –

 

Some grandchildren were almost infants and others were teenagers. They spoke their childhood and how they satisfy themselves with small things. Their memories, however, showed anecdotes and episodes that they were a heritage their grandparents or great-grandparents. The improbable reconstructions were perhaps an attempt to regain his childhood and recall the child who was already in them. And maybe they wanted to talk to their deceased relatives, now. They evoked the lack of time as a limit to think about buying the appropriate gifts, but I believe that their excuses were more a limit due to the idea of having little time to live, because they were not seen younger.

 

I remember my Christmas holidays. Some holidays were sad and boring, others are not. I remembered the gifts, which at that time I forgot the next day. Have we have the charm only in childhood? When we are adults, there is no longer a child?

 

In the row where I was placed, my uncle appeared, my cousin, and other aunts and uncles. The days appeared confused: before and after Christmas. I helped my grandmother and my aunt to beat the eggs to prepare a donut with cream and chocolate frosting. I took wrappers silver cookie named greek and I witnessed my cousin to make up stars and animals. We support sheets of paper on a bench in the hallway. We designed with the pastel green grass, brown trails and then we built a small crib with over the pyramids of clothespins. My sister waved icing sugar to bring up the snow. In fact in those areas it was hot, but, in short, that suited us just fine.

 

In another Christmas I asked in vain for the game of “Battleship”. Someone joked that I had been bad. I cried, but after I took two sheets, I divided them into squares, and I wrote letters and numbers in the column on the first line. I drew two sheets. And with squares cut from another sheet, my sister and I We inserted (with the stapler that I gave my mother) small rectangles to invoke the idea of the ships.

 

With other cousins, we designed every ship with various symbols to divide them into two naval fleets. We finished the job in two hours all together. The adults played with our game. We are not going to play, because in the euphoria, we began to draw, each, a small path to the game of goose. When we finished we draw, we put in our designs in a box for shoes and delivered it to an uncle, that he gave to the poor kid. At that time, we were sure that Uncle would perform the task. We had to award the mandarins and we ate them together.

Io sorrisi, e gli altri in fila mi chiesero perché io stessi ridendo di loro. Io raccontai i Natali di ieri e quelli che avrebbero potuto essere oggi.

 

I related a recent Christmas. We did not have the tree. We used an umbrella stand and we put leaves with photos. Old toys became branches. We called: “tree of drawings and thoughts.” The fruits were envelopes for letters.

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Tree of ideas

We compose another smaller tree with an ashtray, paper clips, pens, caps without the ink. With a roll of toilet paper, we simulated the stars circling comets them as a vortex of a lampshade. We wrote some astral constellation names and the names of deities. Even the younger cousins wrote (in code) all the beautiful phrases that we would have wanted to say to our affections and laziness or pride, or we did not say we could not say (Some relatives were no longer alive). We put the phrases in the envelopes of the first tree. Each of us had his own gift: “I love myself, my life, your life only.”

 

The elders in a row (they laughed) asked me, how old was the youngest of us in this recent Christmas. I said thirty-three years.

 

 

Poetically

@ 24 POETICALLY: The Expulsion from Paradise

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November 25 is the day of violence against women. Violence against women is expressed through the phrases “stalker” and “femicide” in Italy. The discussions mainly concern the brutal facts of chronicle. Journalists oscillate between an apocalyptic vision in one of irrelevance. Conditions at work, on time management for the care of family and self, and access to education, have improved significantly since the seventies for all: males and females. The element of discussion in Italy is still elementary: the woman’s body. Public opinion sometimes doubts on physical violence to women. Many people debate whether the responsibility is the victim. The media analyze a single event and not the system of social networks. The system of repression, the legal, health and economic minimum subsistence, amplifies all the violence and the condition of subjugation of women.

 

 

Males do not speak. They are indifferent. Some males are violent. Males comment on the violence, sometimes with witticism and stereotypes. Or not?

 

Men should recognize the phenomenon. If men were witnessed events of violence against women, they should honestly express judgments about themselves and about their attitudes.

 

It was a Sunday afternoon in late May in 1985. The air was warm and the sky was clear. I was sitting with friends on the stairs of the main entrance of the municipality of Marino (town near Rome). A woman appeared with the dress to the nines. She ran to the streets asking for help. A scruffy old burly man chasing her. The man grabbed the woman and threw her to the ground. The brute slapped the woman. It all happened in less than 10 seconds. We did not have time to move. We looked at each other in disbelief, inert and dazed. A young man came over and ordered him to stop the brute. Another man arrived: an undercover policeman.

 

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Colonna’s Palace – Municipality of Marino (Rome)

The brute calmed down. The woman gets up and pulled himself together. We remained standing as puppets. Some acquaintances of the couple arrived and they talked animatedly. Everyone left a few minutes later.

 

On the side, there were some ladies sitting on the balcony and others on chairs outside their house entrances. I knew them all along: how many times they told me to be careful of the cars when I was a kid and I used to play with their children, and when they offered snacks to their children and to me. They infused the stability, security and a sense of time. They were lovely: a trace my childhood.

 

Their look was grim and dour. I observe for the first time those faces. I listened to their harsh comments against the woman who was appealed as a “prostitute”. I do not I caught no judgment toward the man. The “acquired” aunts looked like statues full of cold and soot, now.

 

The houses appeared black with a sky without a reflection. I had the image of the first page of the novel “The Protocny’ alley” Elijah Ehrenburg, where a man hit in the head with a brick a woman in the street. And what for me was experienced as a fiction, all this he twisted bowel, now. I stammered incoherently as my two friends next door.

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We looked at each other still blushing. We were humiliated our inactivity and fear. And after a long time before the mirror and no excuses, I realized that the shame which I had after the event, was also an excuse: we thought to ourselves, not to the woman. The tangle of emotions was a network off the violence and absurdity of the scene. I had buried the woman in the streets of my mind. I had become, in spite myself, an accomplice of that violence. It answered that, at that moment, the safe childhood was disintegrated: I was expelled from Paradise.

Poetically

@23 Poetically: Occurrences

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Occurrences make real the illusion of order events between “before” and “after”. They are feeble ties between individuals and society. We share schemes on the day and night with fictitious dates. We establish contiguity between symbols and meanings.

 

Social conventions and personal prop memories with hope are a real segment our lives, for which we, at every moment, we bring entire memory and the past here, now.

 

It was a hot day on October 25th 1990. I was on leave for a day from the military service. Early in the morning, before dawn, I ran to catch the train. I had to take an exam at the university. It was a day with a positive view of life: from the air, the trees, warm and gentle wind of Rome. I went through the exam with a calm and confident style and with the highest vote. I went back to the barracks and fellow seemed pleased to listen my stories of that day, times, steps, crossings, the shops, the anecdotes that follow after the storms, operations and blood tests.

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Near Spanish Steps (Rome) on Sunday afternoon.

 

And even more so a qualifying exam for History and Philosophy October 25, 2001, I sustained a qualifying exam to teach “history and philosophy.” I wrote about the wars of a hundred years. I quoted the battle Azincourt – October 25, 1415, where the British won outnumbered against the French. After just a few days, I saw the film by Kenneth Branagh – “Henry V” that deals with these vicissitudes. That day was happy.

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Kenneth Branagh – “Henry V”

 

In a more remote time, in another 25 October, in a quiet street (a Sunday afternoon), I received a modest kiss and I blushed with surprise and joy. It was only a kiss. And then there was a smile all day.

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Paradiso Street – Valmontone (Roma)

 

And finally, I ran a marathon of 12 km. I got my personal best (25 October 2002). During the race, the rain was almost a caress.

 

The anecdotes with the meanings about real facts, are used to embroider a pattern of flashes of life, where we want that day, like every day, we thank ourselves, because we try to keep the promise to preserve a treasure .

Poetically

@ 22 POETICALLY: TRIPLE ANNIVERSARY.

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It’s been three years since the publication of my first book of poems with associated images, “Suspended Dreams” ( print format – digital format  ).

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The poems had a very long gestation period, but relatively short for the drawing. I contacted Italian and foreign painters and photographers talking about their works. Some did not consider it appropriate to join my project. I relived every their image. I corrected him for months and months poems, later. The study was characterized by a handicraft correction. They were prompted by the only photo I snapped my published during the Midnight Sun last border of the port of Riga (Latvia). I exchanged the knowledge and skills with other writers to edit the book in print and in digital format. I continue the good cooperation with the painters today.

The second book of poems with images “Mutual Rebirths” appeared after a year ( print format e digital format ). Some of these poems were already sketched during the writing of the previous book.

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I had to change some pictures and I continued the research on entire catalogs. I pose myself as a sounding board that tries to reflect the characteristic traits of each of us dreams and rebirths. Some poems invite the reader with issues seemingly easygoing and relaxing, then there are the doors of nightmares and terror. The “nothing” and “nothing”. In the poem, however, even oblivion is brought as a constituent element. The thesis states that, perhaps, nothing disappears. Everything reappears.

I wrote the story in digital format “Everything under control. A body in the mirror” (http://www.ibs.it/ebook/Milita-Lino/Tutto-sotto-controllo/9788868856229.html), after the two works poetry.

 

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This story a monologue where the mirror describes the desire to control the body. The mirror describes a body completely manipulated by overexposure technology. The story offers a hypothesis. The part of us that is deemed to be weaker in suffering, perhaps it can be a anchor of salvation.

 

I have published the English translation of my book of poems in Italian “Mutual rebirths” in recent months ( print format   – digital format  ).

 

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The painters and photographers who collaborated to write the story, asked to translate for the English speaking audience.

 

I relived a new creation with the hope that is another sign of a common path.

 

And the journey continues …

Poetically

@21 Poetically: A conversation in progress. Anniversary of “Everything under control. A body in the mirror

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A year has passed since the publication of the paper in digital format “Everything is under control. A body in the mirror. “A work, sublime or mid-level, if this is, both for the author and for the space of formal communication that incorporates, it acquires or it should buy its own life, so that it accompanies the reader and the writer in a still to explore.

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med_georgi-petrusov-portrait-of-aleksandr-rodchenko-1933

 

With reference to the “public” potential that I imagined in a timeframe annual, that I thought in lesser quantities, because my two previous writings are poetry, this written in prose, lonely and under track, continued with a constancy from marathon runner to meet more new readers every month.

 

As the cost of the writing is a little over a euro, I have found that it has been taken mainly by assonance, stimulus and curiosity about the title and a few hints about the content. At first glance it seems to me to talk about anorexia as a symptom of a malaise known to all, but already the first lines, the reader understands that the “food dysfunction” is a symptom of the processes that they are so unique and unrepeatable for each of us, and that they have, however, a common reference to long-term social processes.

 

The body was already once understood as a product of a technique, albeit for references supramundane, and now it is registered in the laity criteria of “best management resources” in a horizon for which “doing”, “act in view of a defined objective “and management” domestic “their livelihood, their elements are already separated and fully available. We are therefore confident in disposing of the body in time patterns already foreshadowed, according to well-defined actions and safe in a procession that it is similar to that of a pilgrim towards a relic, which give a certificate, diploma, or a performance sexual and convivial, with emotions and feelings that are well pigeonholed in the procedure of a serial satisfaction and nuanced.

 

Everything must be under control, because the body is wanted as if it were already an essential and original, and not a goal to reach. We have a faith towards a simplification of the world with a double inversion of means and purposes, where the control is at the same time an element of the body which must be produced and in the other a set of behaviors and views of the world, which are adapted to change it. It is a short circuit. A mirror that you want to fake, and you want to tell the fake: “This little thing you see is the whole of reality.”

 

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Tina Modotti, The hands is working.

 

The problem comes when the body itself, the part deemed simpler, split and weak, rebels and does so through the same violent and unlimited vision that we want to create. The background and the material available, which is almost despised, in addition to being the source of what it is, offers other possibilities of existence.

 

Almost every reader of the text has first started a conversation through www.linomilita.com website, and everyone fairly even before reading, requested clarifications on those terms, and then almost more than half of the readers, until now, has returned to write combining their experiences, compared to the path that is offered by the text. By the words and experiences, unique and unrepeatable for each, it appears that “we”, “our” image, “our” body have an indefinite surplus still to be said, seen and experienced. And this “more” is unlimited. And that all will to make it static and uniform, clashes against itself. The interview is still in progress.

 

The book can be downloaded

Ultimabooks: Here

Bookrepublic: Here

ebook.it : Here

Amazon: Here – in kindle format.

 

Poetically

@ 20 poetically: deficiencies final

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I recently met a friend at a Pub, and after a few minutes came upon an acquaintance of his. The conversation was long and comfortable and we talked about topics informal and private circumstances of our past. The acquaintance said he had no relations of any kind with their parents (living) for more than ten years. I did not want to think about the reasons and any judgments about the events that led to this break incurable. Me and my friend responded with phrases and arguments of circumstance and we talked about lighter topics, but we were enveloped by a sense of wonder and anxiety that lasted for days. In some cases, if the stories of life were marked by trauma, by quarrels and repressed hatred and resentment, detachment is a painful scar. In family relations and in the relations of the couple and also in friendships and conflicts cut for claims, remains, even at a subconscious level, in the claim and in pain, memory and desire repressed, miserable and grim, to know something of who was once dear. The hypocritical curiosity persists in knowing if those who were dear, suffer or are incurred in painful events. In this case, although the curiosity was not expressed, we realized that he had listened to a funeral detachment with the paradox that we talked about human beings. The simple answer is the hatred that generates cold and calculating power conscious pride.

 

The most abysmal doubt that continued to spin around my head was not so much an analysis of a son did not want to see their parents, what about future consequences. There are those who have elderly parents with a progressive deterioration of health conditions, where the old age port in the road of pain and finally death. Some are orphans from an early age. Usually the presence of parents is considered obvious, though over the months, they often begin to suffer from minor ailments, more and more widespread and intense. And if they do not appear in the Earth, each one has thought and doubt of having lost the time that was not shared. The same parents who attend every day, at a time when there is a tragic event, they have the regret of not saying important phrases, real and heartfelt. The sense of inadequacy is common and it also reflects the way we live. The end of days for others, makes us think of our departure; the time has already passed and the constellation of opportunities easily achievable, but for laziness, superficiality and ignorance, we have returned to an imaginary future.

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Alicja Bloch. The Image is taken HERE

 

The disappearance of the parents is fully understood in the days to come, in which everyone is measured by the daily rituals and celebrations of the seasons. Do not have a contact with their parents, implying a temporal leap, because the role of the son is stopped at a point in the past or in a gate of the mind, where we expect to enter to repeat the episode of detachment. The absence of cause a permanent closure, although the “dead” still appear. The problem, then, is the moment when you know or come to know that there are more.

 

What can happen after the final mourning?

 

A first answer is that all the past appears in front, with all the anger and pain that can not be resolved. In addition, perhaps, it appears as an empty feeling excruciating mixed with helplessness. There is a risk that the structures deposited over the years in building the dam of the division, might collapse. And what we encounter then?

  

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Tom Bennett , Sleepwalk 20, 2010, The image is taken HERE

 

What happens in addressing the dead for the second time? What happens when the meeting is final? Such deficiencies hurt us?

Poetically

@19 Poetically: The Apocalypse of carbon

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The Apocalypse also refers to the catastrophe and then to the upheaval of the fundamentals and lack thereof. The table and the hamper that hold the food can be broken. The entropy has to do with the change that can cause disorder and anxiety evoking the shortage. The nightmare of the collapse of what supports us to live, to stay and to continue to exist, may reappear from the depths our unconscious.

 

In the last decades there is a specific day of the year where the Earth and its ecological systems do not transform, so favorable for us, the carbon cycle because we consume more than it can be absorbed and reproduced. Like a ship at the time of “Moby Dick” where you wanted absurdly energy, life and hope from the whales, now we depend on ships that carry oil. We are in the black water. And the other energies are living on it. It is a low energy, which is preparing for war for universal access to safe drinking water.

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Christine Lindstrom – The image is taken HERE

 

The nature there always will be, but the problem lies in assessing whether there will be a second equilibrium comfortable for us. The ship creates the city and the mainland depends on the docking of these whales made ​​of steel. The towns are supplied by ships that connect the arteries of tubes that penetrate into the waters. It is the largest city of energy that lives near the ships swaying from one bank to another. This has more than 150 years and it is ending. Even if we found other sources of gas, and the loving embrace of a future poisonous atmosphere of Venus would attract the Apocalypse.

 

In the war of dirty water, but drinkable, it may happen that with our technological support we would find other sources and recycling, sustainable and reformulate a view of nature with free seeds and domesticated animals for companionship or for food. In Italy, for example, since centuries, there are no forests, woods or places that have not been uprooted and replanted by man. Every natural ecosystem Italian is sham in the sense of artifact, because it is made by man, both in technique and in the flow of water, both in building up the city and remember in art, symbol and gesture. And the cities are made of time, of production and consumption, dawn and night, rain and sun, and everything is maintained by plants with the continuous pulsation of chlorophyll synthesis. This lady green and lymphatic that exists and can exist before and without us.

 

Us how we can come to terms?

 

Here is the dilemma, and it is no longer to consume less, or be aware of it the same way as revived environmentalists, because we are already in the Apocalypse, and this is no longer the time of the prophets. We are already in the irreversible process of change and the inability to sustain a consumption below the maximum level of sustainability descending.

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Giacomo Costa – Imagine Taken HERE 

Poetically

@Poetically: the final cut

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Perseus with the head of Medusa

 Author: Benvenuto Cellini – Piazza della Signoria in Florence

 

The cut of the head in war, to a penalty imposed by a modern legal system, or to a pagan ritual, it is a murder. Every murder is horrendous and, in addition, here we see a conscious desire to attribute meanings and symbols after the disappearance of the enemy. The head is a treasure, because it was the food: it contains the essence of the enemy. In ancient times we believed to possess the soul, the memory, or, on the contrary, that we send him definitively in the realm of the dead. In periods even closer to us, the severed heads became a trophy, to certify the power of the killer acting on the justice of God, legal, royal, political and moral.

 

 

During the period of the Enlightenment the guillotine was meant to sublimate the horrendous act of murder. A murder that recalls the fears of the archaic male, who were also referred to castration. The cut is not due to self-defense, and it has a major aggravating for guilt of the murder: it is premeditated. Do not you cut the head out of anger, ire or madness. This is done with common sense thinking about all the implications to strike terror, or to obtain the approval. It is in the midst of his faculties, and if it is fulfilled in view of an exposure to an audience, there is no mitigating factor. The states that still have the death penalty, organize the ritual aseptically; it is almost impersonal. The Executioner must be anonymous and faceless, and his actions must be mediated by machines to make the final gesture. In other countries with the hanging or the firing squad, there is a ritual among the public, the authorities, the “guilty” and the machinery that kills. The execution in the public square is a sacrificial rite that establishes a balance between the guilt and penalty. The rite want to cover the horror of death.

 

 

In recent months, ISIS – Jama’at al-Tawhid wa al-Jihad – (Islamic State of Syria) has reversed the process of abstraction between death and beheaded. There is a contact between the victim and murderess, so this is annihilated in silence. Not by chance are killed journalists: those who see and speak. The ISIS wants the annihilation and he wants to instill fear through the means of mass communication: an advertising strategy from western marketing. They were described as barbarians, or crazy, or of other cultures genetically evil. They are the bad guys. Still others say that they are our main products, and the fault is ours. In each case, the victim is forgotten. Beyond the political controversy and war, the element that arouses even more concern is that they have missed the mark, though when someone posts a picture of centuries ago that is the beheading, instead of talking about art and also the horror, the sublime and tragic, many commented on the exploits of this ISIS.

 

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“Judith and Holofernes” Of Artemisia Gentileschi.

 The Image is taken  HERE –

The vision of horror and death disrupts our patterns historical and aesthetic. Some people, even those who know nothing of art, they believe that Artemisia was a bloody life. Instead Artemisia Gentileschi, in addition to being a great artist, was generosity personified in life. The art speaks of the human soul and in addition to light, there is also the abyss without light.

 

The death of that cuts is more frightening than a murder with a gun that in ten seconds can kill 20 humans. The ISIS is using a new fear. It is not God’s punishment, there is no rule of law, there is no clash eorico, maybe it’s a simple statement of power deaf.

 

What do you think? But the most important thing is: do you feel? What do you hear in your mind?

Poetically

@ 17 poetically: the offer of a free kiss: poetry.

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March 2, 2014 

This picture is one of the few Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec (Albi, November 24, 1864 – Saint-André-du-Bois, September 9, 1901) where the lovers are facing forward each other.

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In spite of all lovers maintaining the modesty of the eyes closed. Lautrec‘s paintings, usually, each character looks at himself when dancing, walking, or practice ablutions. Every body is just. This picture is one of the few if not the only, where the two parties are face to face, but her eyes closed. Everyone in the tension of the kiss that begins to connect his lips. The two bodies are not wrapped, but they are in a reciprocal call, as if each of the two, looking and feeling your emotional state, wants to share it with others. It is a kiss that is first and foremost a meeting. It is a discreet encounter: an offer.

The two bodies are held, but did not grasp. The arms are placed on the shoulders to get a perspective of alignment of the two faces and two mouths. The line of the kiss is a relationship that takes the picture. The bed sunk creates depth: it receives a balance of these two bodies lined by row of the kiss which is not cut, but it contains all the subject. The axis reveals a texture that starts from the mouths and with concentric circles, it expands from the shoulders to the hands up to the base of the painting, which implies the continuity of the two bodies, down to the feet. The line and the point constitute the epicenter of a dual relationship to synchronous two feelings of attraction.

The delicate features, despite the folds and turns the balance solitary, are offered by vertical strokes, almost as if we saw them in a dream, or a memory. The bodies do not want to be excessive. They do not scream and do not require attention: they are present and ready to turn out to those who gets up and holds his gaze. They speak to those who are willing to listen to the strokes chromatic and stamp the forms evoked by the framework.

The poem is also this: a chaste kiss and ready to overflow. A greeting that is willing to be a hug panoramic feelings, joys and sorrows, hopes and certainties, melancholy and despair. It contains all without requiring that, even when she stands as irreverent poetry of claim. The discrete sentences have the road open in poetic feeling, because naked, they immediately offer all of the speaker and that it evokes.

Toulouse Lautrec in this context reveals an inner stamp: a personal and intimate desire never fully evoked in his life.

Poetically

Poetically @ 16: Anniversary of a suspended dream

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June 10, 2013

These days, a year ago, just back from Riga (Latvia), I decided to write a book of poems, many of which were in an embryonic state and many images and photos and paintings that I had lived and shared in my unconscious and with presence in many friends, even virtual. A suspended dream finally appeared in wakefulness.

In midnight on the summer solstice at the end of May, as if by magic in the way of the shipyard in the port of Riga, back to my unspoken thoughts, I came to the last edge, beyond which begins the forests to the north that forward to the Russian coast to Finland.

And the Sun instead of disappearing into the horizon, for a reverse voltage, it began to rise as if about to explode. But what changed was the sky from a gray blue waving the blue, in the time of a blink of an eye, it became yellow and orange all around there was an expectant silence.

It was a flash, but not from the outside: a swirl of ideas condensed in rhyme, just as I was taking this photo.

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The same morning I was helped by a fellow native, returning to his home, to write a few lines in similarity to the style of the Latvian poet Imants Ziedonis (May 3, 1933 – February 27, 2013). In the following hours in a state of self-induced hypnosis, thinking I wrote some notes to the port and to the Sun, where the morning had already taken his leave from the base of the horizon. And then I hazarded some sounds of a foreign language to me, if not for some of the terms of Ziedonis. That embryo of verse that was written in the following weeks, it became the poem “The semicircle of the day,” my book “Dreams Suspended.”

 

The semicircle of the day – Lino Milita

On the shadows of water expanses of sky,
you wobble every hour on the thin trace.
The narrow surfaces shaking the arrows
ray diffuse on the bottom end.

The sudden flicker an eye crimson,
push your fuzzy contrails under
solid seals, which are buried in caskets
of anxious nights sleeping.

The expected answers you do not subtract
around the rapt gaze.
The accepted vigils invoked, you pour
phonic infirm in flames.

Twilights you contain compressed browsing
around the swashplate ring plane and
in the eye of the horizon of each desired
sense, you caress the eyelids finally relaxed.

 

And this is a superficial and inaccurate translation that takes into account the Latvian language, which was written taking into account the admiration that semicircle of colors constantly changing.

 

Pusaplis dienas – Lino Milita 

Ūdens plašumiem debesu ēnas, kas
šūpoties katru stundu uz šauras.
Šaurās virsmas shaking darting stariem
plaši izplatīta jūras dibena neskaidra.

Pēkšņas mirgo sarkanās trīce,
push jūsu izplūdušu takas
cietās blīves, kas ir ietverti lādes
bezmiega naktis un nemierīgi.

Netiek ņemta vērā paredzamo atbildes
ar acīm, kas jūs brīnums.
Pieņemt faktu jautājumiem un izplatīt liesmu
un skaņas visu ugunsgrēku.

Jums pārlūkot uz mazām twilights
ap gredzenu plaknei, kas svārstās
pagrieziena pie apvāršņa,
kur katrs plakstiņa ir difūzs glāstīja.

 

And to return to Italy in June I continued to recall the dreams of the past and echoes of future results, which are also oscillating in the suspension of the semicircle of the day.