Wednesday, June 1, 2022






Christ With Violin


Dedicated To Baris Yazgi


[I am] the first day of school of a little man

who is ashamed to speak – Fabrizio Moro


I feel the wave watching over the meeting of my last heartbeats

with its blue variations

where there is no return,

my name that stretches out in pentagram

for those creatures that await the sky,

the horizon that borders on the void

before being nostalgia,

I feel the day that hasn’t broken

and in which, suspended like a drop, I let myself be a dream.


I am a Christ who has a violin for his cross,

his strings my daily bread,

his voice my forgiveness,

light as shell pollen

I let myself be carried away where the starfish

are flowers that sing of love

and the world is a sketch that has stopped burning,

upside down in the shadowy canvas that sparkle

and muffled like the desire for a caress

that desire remains.


I feel my body liquid, without rigging,

and absolute,

almost a tear that slips on the fingerprints of the sea

while the sun paints its ray

with which he stabs me


and I find myself as a groom without a promise and without a dress


a misty albatross that stretches beyond the wave,

where memories are not yet born

and the eyes are silent, while the fingers predict an echo of my land.




There’s in the short froth of a palpitation

a God waiting like a chrysalis

creating the waves’ host

on which lazes my name


summer dust on figs are words

when sunset makes them red-hot by pulp

at the sunset’s forgiveness where the silence salt,

the shore burnt like skin smelling Malvasia


the scorching stones at the olives’ bottom

they sigh like the heart’s untamed rings,

when the fishermen offshore suspend the nostalgia of the sea

and undo the distance from who we let go

in the line of the horizon


so many stories tell the rocks,

some get caught on the nets,

other collected on the water’s edge like shells,

who smells them is a wet snout of a dog

or the crying in which was dried out a dream.


My city is sleeping.


The pain washed by the seaweeds at the fan of Mistral.


I’m counting all my happinesses

on the noise’s end,

while a seagull is carring love affairs in dialect,

and the sign of the cross a lucky charm.


The Chemistry Of The Silence Beyond


Everything remains there, beyond my silence;

everything remains there. My memory

is my prison, me being a man

is rarefied like a dream, my footprints

are a scribble of salt, and I feel myself sucked

in the empty yawn of the sea; my tongue bounces

while it tries to reach the last prayer; my fingers

drink from the sky while it empties out, where the pain

broke its virginity. My heart is bitten

by the hole, while my escape cracks in the cold,

when live takes shelter in a parenthesis,

and it lasts a habit, an obsession, and my entire silence

beyond, and me. I count the burden of the days

I have not been, or maybe of those

I have been too much, or maybe.




DAVIDE ROCCO COLACRAI: Legal and Criminologist, Davide Rocco Colacrai (born in Switzerland in 1981) has taken part in Literature Awards since fourteen years and has won over thousand awards. He is author of the nine books, the last one is Della stessa sostanza dei padri – poesie al maschile. His poems have been translated into English, Spanish, French, Russian, Albanian, Greek, Chinese and Bengali. He teaches math, studies acting, plays piano and harp, is a collector of 7” vinyl from all around the world” (he has got almost 2000 pieces), likes reading, walking in the nature with his dog Mitty and travelling.

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