Edited and translated by Roberta Dammern, Italy



All original texts are © by their original authors. All rights reserved.

Please, if you notice some mistakes, say a word :)

-template by rd-

From roses, you came

(by Marika Bortolami, Padua)

Her body has tried to adapt itself. Pieces of a crystal glass to the ground, in the middle of a red wine puddle. He’s speaking in the sound of dreams. Soaked of water and peach’s soap a sponge falls with a thud in the bath. She is restless, a dark abyss, a longitudinal cut on the wrists.

*

- hidden inwardly-

Dances in the thought and on feet’s tips

(he kisses her thin ankles)

white as snow the shirt opened next belly

(he has slow and steady gestures)

shirt collar upward, to the cawing sound of a radio

(dyed of intentions, forever Home)

a famous song, to majority

-like an inviolabile and undivided mystery-

*

- it’s never appened –

turned sideways, naked shoulders

- it’s never appened –

the irregular breath, a Presences that surround her

- it’s never appened –

to walk barefoot in the ruined parquet

- it’s never appened –

when the water oozes from walls, when the round becomes

an ice film that, thick, leans against to preserve and stop the

Time

what would need is a sound,

a light movement of eyelash,

half-closed mouths to the sky.

*

This is a small

Pain

to pour out with sugar in the morning white coffe

between the hospital light and the scent of apple cookies

a kind of silence spread on the table with the orange juice

to write about.

*

(a new company opened in front of the main door

banal proposals & outmoded traditions)

if I was water

I could be able to burn for you.

*

She has a slice of poetry between hands

bought so much per kilo, in outskirts, for few Euros

from poets who do not know in which drawers withdraw into

Our lost children surround us in the row

of vulnerable writings caressing and taking at the throat,

with long nails of fear

curled and busy,

as if they’re counting snowflakes

*

Suddenly free the inner organs have an exaggerated expansion in the evening light,

a body to the ground, still warm, but the intermittent lights in the long run

they ruin also the best atmospheres, packed as christmas hampers

and in deployed alarms there are promises of gray scales,

opaque and dirty glass windows, old magazines and steps dragged on from the old ones.

*

- under a violet and tender sky a monologue for letters never sent –

This is the country of toys

we are jagged in various sins, washed, combed,

separated in the world like log without arms

Opened to what is remote,

everyone with its night of words,

everyone different and crisalis of oneself

scars alf-closed and celebrated in wilder thirsts,

long all-eating avenues that sink the teeth between blood and desire of departures and returns in the same nights of words you remains a fragile creature (and dead), consecrated in my regrets.

From roses, you came.