L.a. times

. and in rising itself of these spectacular melodie, the angels intonano their song. I have dreammed for an entire life this moment having guided to you with phrenetic ecstasy, holding to you tightened finchè you favours every my movement. Then lasci to go to you and with dolcezza he reveals your passion, your implorante demand, your silks of feelings. Then, still, to you I take tightening to you with frenzy in I embrace warmth, of passion, of love. trying the zones erogene of your mind, making to vibrate your body of desire, in a travel of the senses, of freed passion. Six my slave and my landlady in this travel. And we are hour here, embraces to make the love. In order always our screw to you are changed like if every more small fiber of my body was wide awake. That languore still does not abandon me compound to languido a pain which had to the empty sense of. remained E' your ghost in my bed. E' lì, is knot and warm and the arms tentatore like a lover stretch me. Your voice, the honey of your sighs, which powerful aphrodisiac is and I would want to drown to us grabbed hold of to your body strongly that chest that like a port to me he receives leaving sure that the storm that has been get loosed plachi. In the buio I felt too much Hush, I have not been able urlare otherwise I would have made it. Face the shoulders to the ghost and I avoid to watch forgetting it every pudore, every rationality. The Fire, one of the esoteric elements of the Life. The fire is heat, is color paradoxicalally two aspects to antipodal of one the conception of the life like penance and espiazione of the sin. That same heated grembo feminine one that it creates the life from the null one, becomes therefore symbol of taboo and expression of one lussuriosa carnalità and immonda. The power, that he is temporal or spiritual, always burns from in its public squares that that fà fear, that that does not succeed to tame. Therefore the fire and the Life become tutt' one, destruction and creation. From ashes of the more destructive fire it always returns to dull a very small green bud. And the Life rinasce always, like in the myth of the Fenice. To burn in the roghi the madness of the man like improbable personages of a comic strip Maltese, adventurers remains Short only and dreamers, sailors without compass, are shipwrecked of the spirit. Eternal sweethearts of elsewhere and a woman of which they do not remember the name, but of it sgualcita photo conserves one, between tickets of tram and the little spiccioli. Men, eternally make muddy in the troubles and that expression to you to the angle of the mouth, of who place is always felt and ovunque outside. Men who give words as were forbidden kisses too much, too much identical between they. Men who know to lose like if they paid a simple turn of rum and know to go away flat, without haste, without rancor, with the hands in pocket and the look lost behind something, visions of who of it have seen many, more than every other they would swear those that the women try, but never do not know to recognize. Men who please themselves little, for a smile and little words and the woman then do not ask a lot, only a sandwich and a po' of indecenza. Men who, in order to say it with Paul Conte, speak to you therefore:. you come via with me, enters in this love buio, not to lose for nothing to the world the show to you of varied art. Colored freedoms and perline, here what I will give woman to you that you are entering in my life with one full suitcase of perplexity. And then from i, it enters and taken a bath warm, there is a blue bathrobe. tender E' the way that we have to times to caress our spirit, (or ridicule, I do not know.) making of the every thing, also rawest, one poetry. A metaphor where men and women do not exist, nevertheless never has not gone via. Men and women, entirety remembers to you and attended, is not never arrives to you, like in grotteschi storys of Calvin. A metaphor this, where it are to us or to disappear acquire the same emotional sapore, cruel and sweet, like a sour wine, dark and dense. Poetico unconscious oblivion that rimembra ". An improbable dimension where the ego disorders every pezzetto of the puzzle in order to return to reconstruct it a prettier Pò, a more acceptable Pò. In order to continue living, in order to continue to believe, in order to continue to still feel the heart like what absence lives of that not there is or this for me cannot exist is not "a just happy" moment. E' the genius of the woman and its temperament. The regular return del' exaltation ago the Sibilla. Its shrewdness, its malizia makes it witch, and it asks for the evils, or at least them sopisce, it eludes them. In sure days he is veggente. it has the infinite wing of desire and the dream. In order better to compute the time, it observes the sky. But its heart less is not attacked to the earth. Young person and flower anch' it china the eyes on the flowers lovings and with they alloy of personal friendship. Woman, asks they to recover those that it loves. The centuries of the oscurantismo have left in retaggio to our common places the image of the witch like figure of ugly and decrepit, rancorosa and malignant one old. From the actions of the thousand processes for inquisizione it emerges instead the figure of young women, often attractive. Pain and nemesi this, of one lost wisdom the moment of quiet between one folata of wind and an other. Creed that the breathlessness in the life is that one to try eternally and uselessly the meant one that it gives a sense to this same life. Often we try it in the place and the mistaken way, when the truth is simply around to we. It would be enough to remain in Hush and listening to the own spirit as it was the moment of quiet between one folata of wind and an other. You have never felt this ' vuoto' thrilling. You have never felt Hush the irreale one, the wait, the tension between one folata of wind and an other. There are moments in which the life it seems to stop itself for we, moments in which you can seize the sense of all. When this happens the not more six same one, race enters in the formation of one that to scompare, forgotten people in order always, a pellerossa without the prateria. The love, in its infinite manifestations, is the hinge of the life, the cause and the aim. From humans, the ephemeral worry of the being, would be source of madness if we did not have within at least the farthest one, fioca fiammella of embraces to which thinking. That they speak you about an other life, similar to yours to let to go together, to get lost and to find again themselves. The efforts in both cases scanditi in the order of micro and the gigantic one, in the staff and the planetarium. Today, than every thing it is snaturata of every value, the redenzione from this malaise assumes the shape of a deprived of hope outcry. There was more spirit during I besiege of Troy, under the crusades or during the first world war, than today das leben kann I know einfach sein. you can' t remember your name. andares trémulos por los senderos aiming el fireplace pasar muy tries. to ojos de moon llena que it sings que ni palpa ni siente, el alma que llora. sin esperar el sol cuando amanezca. Also this for those astral conjunctions that influence the life of the persons, to they insaputa. I have made mine and I leave them here, why the words, with or without the sound of the voice, are of who of it perceive an inexplicable vibration within. I do not know the name of this person, but only its impalpabile space in the ether:. Last E' an exact year from the day in which I have decided to open this blog. In this lasso of time never it was not capitato to think to me, I do not know perhaps perhaps to us why, it was not important, it was not simply the moment. Those post door the date of 28 November 2006. A single title it and one small image dedicated to the Mediterranean ", sings one milonga of the Gotan project. I read only this poetry of Tagore, before going to sleep when the dew shone in the grass, sliing from the smiles to the tears. I tried but Your ace and that between we bloomed processioni passed, men and women who scattered their songs to the wind of the T' South I have intercrossed here, without to recognize to you, on the road. Then, sure days, full load of indefinite scent. Rabindranath Tagore from "PETALS On ASHES". It leaves living me in the dream, not of dreams, like if every moment it were the last one leaves the way me to perceive every thing as it was always the part of all. Not to remove the passion to me, linfa in the veins, my water, my sun, my hope. It simply leaves living me in the way that so'. like if a leaf that balances in the air it were the more important thing of the world leaves that the emotions are light in the night. E' a funny photo this, but I find it likeable and then there are affezionato.ed a beautiful hat Pò) from the day in which me it has been released. Why no Freedom is obtained without being ready to pay of person for that in which it is believed, without being ready to put itself in game and to even lose something. it appeals to me more than others, I find it wearing to many things of my life, therefore I leave it here, between the last things:. For this who has great passions. E’. a malaise orrendo, painful, thin, pitiless, for which crews or defense do not exist. prank of the reason and the will is made. Not there are remedies or antidotes, because you have it within, radicato in the deep one dell’.anima, you rode like a cancer, pull down to you, you soffoca, consume to you. Every time you feel the earth to franare under the feet, without I seize which to grab hold of to you. E’. a fight learns, deprived of hope, that one against the evil d’.amore. still more hard proportionally all’.intensità of the emotions that have generated it. A fight from which you do not succeed in sottrarti, if not living it all, moment after moment, in one stillicidio infinitely. You cannot distrarti, you cannot leave you to go a moment, because more urgent returns than before. A gesture still more space, because in the same moment in which you write it you know that it will not have some answer. Behind that number of telephone c’.è a piece of your life scomparso all’.improvviso. The pain of the heart and dell’.anima always accompanies to us in order ”. - it wrote un’.amica telling its d’.amore one to me badly, -“. before that the autumnal rains render the route impercorribile. the at first long distance snoda a series of is known to you full of rocks for 350 meters of unevenness, raggiundendo, between riparia vegetation and Mediterranean spot. The high part of the throats is not a escusionistico distance and is only for experts. Tomorrow I will face still my past, to a history without future ne' mercy, 00, have re-entered from little less than un’.ora to casa…. un’.altra day it is ended, like many, a tired one with job, empty of every thing. Situations projected in the future not always pleasant, indeed, often destructive for l’.equilibrio personale…. but they are those that they make to feel me alive. The flights of every Pindaro of irreducible dreamer. To feel to me projected towards un’.altra person does good me to be, realizes my conscious and unconscious pulsioni, da' a sense to my life. Perhaps the troubles are born then, in the moment in which I feel the need of a reply to all questo…. and often all’.improvviso I do not find more not creed to it just, and to times I would take myself alone to martellate for this. To me a torrentello hopping of words, written from some part and to turned me, it would make to feel considered. Therefore, if you are raising the goblet tasting a d’.annata Cabernet, I raise mine virtually in order to make them to tintinnare, if already six under the sheet I augur you dreams d’.oro. l'.attimo of quiet between one folata of wind and un'.a. das leben kann I know einfach sein. I have decided to abandon this blog to its destin. not to take itself too much seriously. Rupestri paintings in Go them dell'.Orta rupestre Art in the Throats of Saint Venanzio. 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