Voice Of Life
Water at the
source
it's a new,
ringing voice
like crying a
newborn.
Flowing vital
singing voice
of the
swaggering teenager.
Torrential,
disruptive, the waterfall
swollen and
lovingly fertile
Be a satisfied
voice
of enterprising
adult.
The river finds
plain and becomes full river
Calm, mature
tone of an old man
and finding
boulders and pebbles
water gets noisy
like mumbling
about grandparents.
The smooth flow
from upstream to
valley
towards the sea
It is equal life
cycle, its singing.
Forces and races
to get there
to scream in the
sea
that encompasses
everything in a wave.
A destiny you
can't escape
but in the end
it is good
that always
water returns.
Share
Between palms of
hand
The white lily
pure candor
solitary prayer
is already
confession
to your creed
without any
interloquire
just you and
what you believe.
Pure feeling
opens the soul
to genuine words
like bread
to be divided
into the communion of peoples
diners at the
table of the whole earth
to be fed in
equal portion.
So in the cup,
the hands
to serve good
spring water
to those who
want it.
Who walks on the
sidewalks
always find
those who need, suffer, ask
a glass, a
blanket
A warm place to
sleep
shelter from the
hot sun.
A mouthful, he
asks, hunger to be filled.
A sweet word or
a smile
of comfort.
Indifference
must go to confession
The worst evil
That occludes
the eyes and the heart.
All In One Spiral
My grandfather
put it to my ear
a shell
beckoning to
listen
the sound of the
sea.
I closed my eyes
and let myself be carried away
on ships,
galleons, dreaming of pirates
and conquerors,
explorers.
The story of a
little girl
exonerated
sinners
totally praising
those who were
usurpers.
It was said of
head cutters
mummificers
of Pelli rosse
skilled in scalps.
But my curious
little head
had seen Ku Klux
Klan actions
I knew the name
of Martin Luther King
images of
Mahatma Gandhi
of Vietnam.
I read London,
crying for the dog
in Call of the
Forest.
I loved American
Indians
The last of the Mohicans,
I loved bears.
Then I met the
name of Biko, of Nelson Mandela.
The history of
the Boer and the conquistadors.
At only eight
years old, my favorite singer
it was Barry
White, I had an infatuation with him.
Lennon's Picture
was my Christmas carol.
Then I studied,
looking for real news.
and I loved the
jungle, the glaciers, the desert
Lost islands
from west to east
From north to
south, the true cross.
I chose tribes
from metropolitans.
I often listened
to that shell
continuing to
hope that the arrogance would disappear
to the sound of
jazz, blues
in a tribal
dance.
By magic of the
sound of the sea.
BARBARA DI SACCO
BARBARA DI SACCO: Italian poet,
Tuscan, defines herself as a painter of poetry, painting it. This is how she
defines it: She is a regal lady, naked or in petticoat, so hurriedly she goes
out, by day, by night. Vague, if you do not immediately welcome it into your
feelings. Barbara loves art in all its forms and planet Earth. She has the
presumption to save it through poetry.
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