moving out

moving out

1

in this apartment left empty now

many voices gather to find reflection

on the white walls staring severely

from where harlequin posters stood,

on the shelves that in the guard robe

have no more the wisdom of books.

Objects once thought lost

have been dug up into a new air

whispering the memories of times gone

revealed in the sadnesses for the uses

one has grown to live without

before turning silent once again

in the darkness of the closed boxes

like rocks fallen down from the quakes that shook the earth.

2

There is so much to be heard here

if only there was time to linger on it

the fantasies removed from the hangers

swarm as a flock of migratory swans

asking for a place to be nesting in

where the dishes and cutlery used to dwell in

in the gestures they once lifted and sustained

while stretching to dreams they made achievable

as they rise now from the dust to meet you again

with a wisdom that has come to late

suggesting to stay to talk about different possibilities

impressed in the emptiness dominated by abandoned furniture.

3

Like this mug with a drawn flower

that stands alone in the bare kitchen;

it carries a life cycle of its own

when the seed of a belief

was warmed by joined hands

and planted in the talks of shared mornings

where its shy stem rose in the nourishment of thirsty lips,

fool blossoming with pouring feelings from rainbow clouds

to enrich the eternal garden of linked sighs,

before the eyes turned apart from each other sustainment

and the growing vegetations around it run out of sap

leaving the flower's swinging petals

winking in loneliness at the drying shelves

that carry the mug prayer left lifeless

for new circulating lymph that can gather

flowing rivers in the blossoming of used cupboards.

4

The old bed, ancient teller of passions,

dismantled of its skeleton of boards and bolts,

recounts the heat of the person recorded in it

as its plumes and scents are slowly exhaled

in the still cold of the stripped bedroom,

a manifesto of sterility where warmth did not clutch

to be transplanted in the untouched womb of a new flat

where the stories of furniture to rear

offer the birth of ghosts marching in the halo

of the virgin floor not yet scratched by feet,

among the soundless gap of the generating flat

where the broken shells of its fertilized egg

will give birth to a cosmos of flowing insecurities

revolving on a dweller that can hold its edges.

5

And in these keys that lock the door

all is screaming and asking to be left asleep

while its departure can be less than ever forgotten,

as the gaze is moving the horizons toward another flat

like a ship leaving the deck with its cargo of counted goods

and map of theoretical definition of the winds

with no record of the roars that waves carry

and in the sail thrown open for breezes to lift it

has nothing to anticipate of its voyages with

of what will keep it spread in the known desire

to march toward landscapes recognized only

by the wish to have the known land behind.

6

To be moving toward the unknown destination,

the mischievous clouds rising at the horizon to form

frowning brows of a face engulfing the future,

that nothing reveals of what it will disclose,

whose crystal pupils dropping inject fear in the traveller,

that to be ready for ravaging battles all around itself,

builds up a solid armour to shelter its timid fire

and to suck the life out of the surroundings

to conquer samples proving its superiority

that could match its desire of having achieved something

with a land made a dry in the attempt;

a land from where the exhalation of blind hopes

will rise in the waiting of a comfortable breeze

to which release the desire for solid arms

sustaining the pillars of the sky where,

the wax of sequestered sap can be devoted

with the puffs of the traveller's intimate fire

in the knitting of the private voice

around the sounds that foams carry,

like a mermaid finding its choir

from the cliff closed by the sea mane rage.

7

In these boxes standing quiet,

the snares of necessity pulsing within,

close around the labelling fingers,

the snake with the eagle in the boughs,

and seem to offer no space for breath

their destination already established

all the chances of dancing already doomed

reduced to be begging only fro what as already been told

to no space for spontaneous beat

as if the light was all consumed

by thorny hedgerows scratching that skin

that tries to wriggle its way out

in an always last consuming attempt

to wreathe the blessing of brushing light

in the revolution of a bleeding dress,

where the tears of the sun

gather along the spinning skirt

in blooming roses smiling at the throne of dawn.

8

Tomorrow's dust will come to seal

today work for creating lasting results

from yesterday's ashes;

the breath of a consuming life

in the hope of a nest to call one's own

to match fearful thoughts with flesh

given to the altar of eroding time

and guarantee the awakening of a shelter

that will survive the night needs for destruction

when the running fingers of the morning awaken

the choking belief that everything must start anew

few objects gathered, few bodies

the furniture keep safe in the privacy of a mind

to be built in the mirror of a breath

pulsing daily with the rhythm of the work

to rise up to the certainty that something has survived

in the few objects and bodies reflected in,

for a days that cannot step over the gathering in dreams

of the life to be nourished within its hopes.

Like in the stillness of a Greek fresco

where all movements are frozen and interrupted

that in the viewers flare up a vision of songs

for the jests and actions still to be taken beyond

time eternal dwelling where time has not its last word.