There is a war of colours,
The Pink eats, The Light Blue gobbles down,
-And I’m flying-.

In the Heaven the Songs
say about a rustle
between skimmed and outcast whispers,
like Clouds’ pupils,
and the wings of heavy plumes.

They meet here,
where Time’s tails
fall,
between unmerciful beats
of violet moths.

They are like Mornings that speed
on the Mountains’ peaks,
perhaps they touched the air
of Himalaya’s breath,
-perhaps, they searched a royal grave,
like a pyramid,
where her Pharaoh sleeps-.

Perhaps, they searched –in an instant-
the soft world of Olympus,
where it’s possible the meeting
between Horizon and Orient,
where it’s possible the landing place
of grudges with the West,
and the Gods chosen human names
to tell about them, about Angels,
when They fallen.

The Clouds don’t be hidden,
except their features
like limp shadows
of concealed crying,
of missed betrayal,
of tears whom the rain
-still- keeps in her chest.
And we can see the Ether
when the cerulean ceiling
throws his palate

with his sorrowing,

-so the meteors fall
like Angels-,
-so the comets fall
like gods-,
dressed up as the Sky.

Foto di/Photo by Samuele Silva – Parole di/Words by Giorgia Spurio.