Poetry - Wind red. Hymn to the poet.

of Rexia Silver

I. Alito weak cough pitch and blasphemy
still
zoppica the weak breath.
Spenta with lâ € ™ last cicca,
the pride of a time
stumbles with the language
mouth kneaded
to pronounce words,
who does not know more say.
Burn the butt,
monco of his courage,
escape or chasing
"Ventorosso" once in a lifetime fugaora not move muscle.
II. Rabies comes from my bucket of tin,
rake laboriously sheet
I try furrows,
stendervi to fertiliser
and I find rocks,
nodes to comb
cartaterra arid
Yet sweats.

What à ¨ not easy,
that incastrino words
but feel inveire
I live enter without knocking,
courteous and false to be in the memory lacchà ¨
turbid to remember
of that wind, which was.

III. Crete and black ink shaped by the genius
grass and wet earth
and to make him love.
The smell of sex explodes in the woods
the nature à ¨ in revolt,
tree buds and stems of flowers field
proletarians and unnamed
fluctuate like him
a dutiful reverence.

Wind clay,
formed indeclinabile verb of heaven
iron incandescent the pen
spits ink and paper ignites
fairness to him,
without convenevoli.

Sands mobile
vanilla tar
the risucchiavano humans spirits
taking in our hands white chrysanthemums
of nouns
was behind the coffin of his sketches violent.

Sepolto verse which would have risen
sedato and drugged of neurosis and folly
Wind is addormiva on its metric unhealthy
revolt sublime poetry throughout,
without rhymes with teeth split,
in the mouth masticava commas to whisky,
mix of nicotine.

IV. Piombavano from heaven its verses,
scuoteva the earth,
rhyme by the fears of others,
that gave voice to his.
Steso on stones
eye peacock
robbed of colors
once saw beings walk
men and ideals keep your head in your hands
crushed to death by currencies.

Chà ¨ à ¨ good order,
as flocks of sheep,
headlong
bleat or brucare,
between annoying tintinnii of bells.
Wind partoriva gridi and belati rending
mothers of every rebellion
multiplied disorder
and this was evil.

Sirens mute on blood
smell of retribution and punishment
guilty or innocent
was never caught
the ventotifone spezzà ² handcuffs,
laces bourgeois, ropes clichà ¨.

Manganelli
the hands of becchini
laugh not of his death,
expect the pallor and the corpse sull'uscio
but the wind sbatte doors and does not see.

V. Today insane
vaneggia a motivetto
disguised as woman and a child,
mother and son
you impiastriccia of ombretto dark
while falling eyelashes
un'assurda alopecia of hope.

Downward tears that already knows
wives on the lips to cast dried flowers.
The woman rose and curved in its skeleton
cries silently
with your mouth closed
rebel without nerve
dejà vu of ciotoli and porphyry
calling the return of the spirit furious
calm of heaven and earth suspended
hysterical wind charms,
cognac, vomiting, including glasses of malaise
ice and tablets.

Ripensa at the time when wind of his name
did battle,
his was red flag.
It was a tribute all'agrifoglio,
The Orange or red porous in the citrus groves of Sicily
was a lace of blood,
was red roulette?

The minds of flesh and bones
know that wind à ¨ breath d 'air
accomplice of lovers and bees that impollinano daisies.
They know that à ¨ warm and afoso
as a breath of garlic to annoy when à ¨ cold.
Only the woman sternum open,
pins in the eye to trattenerlo alive
onomatopeica knows the wind
Disposable last rope into the pit
desperate attempt to save
the man who sbranava cups
and slept on petals sonnifero.

VI. The wind was
a warrior to seek peace
right shield of the righteous,
old madman
inseguiva more dreams that puttane,
but it was done spitting,
saliva and phlegm of remorse.

Nobody knows,
the wind has scars and wounds
Nobody knows, but the wind has color.
The wind and 'red. And the red and dies.

Ipnotizzata from pain
the woman in love
Size his long hair ebony
gift to teacher
poet locked
ingabbiato and punished.

Long ciocche fall
Autumn Heart
esanime on the body of the man who was
The hysterical scissors cut and not peace dÃ
curls corvini atheist as offering to God
Rosario with thorns
she shakes their backs pointed
and for the first time please.

"Wind strong wind red, wind tramontana, wind libeccio caduco
corteggiatore of foliage of crying accasciati willows on the banks of the Brenta
Take my hair "
-- The stem lean setting his neck,
while ventro spirava,
beautiful and bright,
as was his writing.

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