Giorgio, poet

I will write

our story

to read it on evenings

in front of my fire

that devours tremors


I will listen to it with my awakening

smelling like chubby children

far and unaware

of your sweetness, prelude

of obsession.

I will copy it

and frame it

in chapters without

numbers and with never ending


I will sing it to the October winds,

to the runaway of the sun

towards the earth;

to the sea in the morning,

who assaults me with its salt gems

and I will shout it again

through the hearth of

the night,

waking up

the lonely men

who dredge up the city

looking for our treasure.

I will remember our unsure steps,

the pauses, and the passions, and the urgencies,

your hot breath while

you assault my body, and

I will have drunk the moon

which crosses your glance.

I will spy solitary cats

and will see you

lighting the pen and

the paper full of

your disconnected handwriting.

And again the night will

explode and will devour us,

without anything that will spare us

immense moments of torment.

I, I will write it

Damned angel*,

to steel the ink from you,

to see again your fingers

touch my skin.

I will sing it among the tremors,

without breath,

so nobody will be able to write

its end.


Diana Marrone, Storie Mute, 1992


*P.V. Tondelli, Camere Separate, Bompiani,Italy, 1989, quotation

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