The clouds are like restless monsters just above the trees, filaments of light flash through the branches like dripping stalactites. That was not the peace of a sleeping body, nor the bitter savour of bilberry which lingers in the mouth, but a cruel game made of trembling, a waiting for tragedy which a vigilant and terrible eye could command at its pleasure.
The page, the butterfly, the emerald, absences of colour which disappear in the shadow comes before the thought forcing the mouth into useless words. The wind the wave, the string… How do you believe in the useless regard if the agitation gives back whimpering, silencing the long journey of childhood? Which fire burns and which restraint?
Even princes die and their servants fritter away gold and gems in the chambers of mourning and measure out in long paces the illusion of their inheritances. Even princes die and their servants and the waiting is in the memory which forgets. What was his name?
What did he look like?
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Only shades visit memories and the absence of the angels last in the night of foreboding. The branch, the amber, the silk… everything repeats the the overflowing of the whys. Waiting dresses pale blue it pardons time which moves the days noiselessly: Silence is another speaking, sadness another listening. The day is a curtain closed on the confusion of actors who have changed their part. What game is it, what enchantment expected from the silent and desperate death of birches? The man collects up the scattered sheets and going over to the woman says: The scourge of silence leaves traces on the walls, puts letters together helter skelter, turns over discoloured pages.
At night the closed room is visited by sighs, silent hands ransack drawers, immobile space becomes waiting. But between the primrose and boredom the choice is easy if faultless platoons speak of justice in silent deserts. I answer with ill-concealed stupor, sure that immortality is only absence.
The hand wipes out the sign, rummages in our pocket, tears away the long breath of silence. Autumn feigns yet another death and wards off the ordinary remission now that, for cussedness, its eyes settle and the shade insists on being seen. The hour passes between darkened dawns and vanished colours: Crying becomes a reply, prayer likewise.
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Since the mystery has nether beginning nor end that night we smoked and drank red wine white a lazy pencil essayed poem: Tresses strewn on silent carpets and cloistered dreams; now that abjuration has torn out the windows the room becomes a place of ill-luck white the contingent changes the divinities and open folded edges on the pages of history. The stuttering doubt moves in the ocean of discord, it levels hair, cuts the tresses of pale girls.
The spirit fell silent watching his own image in the dressing-table mirror, sagely waiting for me to recite my lines. Then whit head bent sure of my distance: He said this scorn while the tenacious spirit challenged my silence…Then it was only a glance, his eyes skimmed my forehead trying to seize the secret from my shade. A colour, one, which melts the vertigo of the mind, one which reveals the mystery of the fables, just one, to recall the toys of childhood. Difference is without a voice, a law fixed in the silence of glances, a call for help in a day of terror when frightened children throw stones madly.
The mirror gives form to the image but it flattens the sense of words thus-glass cleaned with the paper- the man repeats that he is immortal. The book is aimed at italian users so it is particularly frustrating Vedi tutte le 4 recensioni. Consegne illimitate in 1 giorno. Iscriviti ad Amazon Prime: Ulteriori informazioni su Amazon Prime. Metodi di pagamento Amazon. Non abilitato Word Wise: Non abilitato Screen Reader: Visualizza o modifica i tuoi ordini alla pagina Il mio account.
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