Andrea Antognini 1999 © All rights reserved 

In a blossoming flower

I see your existence,

in the breeze, from the sea

I hear your breath...

nocturnal light,

and armfuls of dreams

to squeeze you again.

It's like a child asking:

where do we fly tomorrow ?

A sweet sound,

of a changeable wind

the strength...

Of snow or fire

the colour...

I remain thinking

what shape love has.

 That boundary

The horizon is nothing...

the design of other minds,

foggy boundary

... and us two.

Confused thought-filled breezes

just perceptible, they rise up,

disappearing with a rustle

between a child's fingers.

That boundary is nothing, yet everything.

Fragile sound,

crystal,

among celestial lights

nocturnal...

the sound of the sea, that blends

our existence,

on the moon's shores.

While the Moon still sleeps

a thousand stars

sing its awakening.

The smallest shimmers

as thought about to escape...

from my eyes, the sky

diving deeply

to light up my heart.

Voices

ours, destinies

like that first star

and words,

colours of an eternal autumn.

Exploded in the silence

leaves thrown into the air,

butterflies, our voices

fill up the pauses, spaces

our seasons.

Tonight

listening to you,

I climbed the stair...

seven notes, and beyond

the acute love,

the eighth.

Gardens bleached

by red and yellow

in the fourth season,

prelude of rain.

Overflowing ink pots, like hearts...

Ink heart beats

will stop pressing impressions,

joyful prelude.

Finally... rustling footsteps, leaves

in the turmoil of tired souls

will leave a last smile,

preludes...

From a shell

I heard your breath...

and on the left

Sea Queen

I elected you into my existence,

uniting the Orient to the West.

Lone waters, a drop

to reflect the infinite

from one sole shell.

They burn all around

little fires, flickering thoughts...

trickling from few coloured candles

waxen tears.

Sparkling eyes

filled with indefinite emotions

in admiring those stems

which bring forth vivid trembling flowers.

Your eyes fall

like stars

on this dark night of ink.

And while I listen, in the silence,

love,

life's timeplace...

I tuck my thoughts away from the world.

From the source

its watery course starts again, calm,

to meet the sea,

to see your smile reflected there.

Tiny, fragile

is this leaf

that today's wind

tosses into the air.

Who picked it up

believed they could fly,

who listened to it

believed they could dream.

A sky blue Rose

suspended among thoughts

painted by finger of virtue

in the flapping of a wing.

The long stem drops

to quench its thirst, discreet,

of what it was, what it is...

what it has always been.

Who, from the meadows,

turned their glance eastwards

remained trapped by the sun...

and never was a sentence sweeter

than being dusk and dawn.

In the illusion

the seasons hide,

children of the sweetest doubt.

Desired or suffered

they will compete for our existence,

our love.

Upon which of them

is our happiness painted ?

It was summer.

I celebrate the double

of my days...

in a silent nightingale's presence.

The time of its first song

was still far away

and timidly already showed

its vermilion breast

bursting with winter's songs.

I still carry with me

a few crumbs,

and memory of her glance,

almost an embrace...

while she dives

to confuse me,

amongst holly bushes.

Unaware, of us

the morning remains,

to break in decidedly

in dispelling the unconscious.

 Domineering id the flavour

of dawn, which looks to

untie that knot,

…of life …of abandon.

And with the dreams still clinging

to the eyes,

it's wonderful to imagine you beside me.

 I squeeze a bundle of words

among my thoughts

the flavour of a night.

I was also there…

of many there was one,

of child syllables.

Of many you,

of the sour taste of life.

 Two wings are necessary

to fly…

I would like to be

the one heading out to sea… 

 So that tomorrow will be a rainbow,

tonight I shall steal

your dreams…

to copy their colours,

and carefully mould

this new sky.

 It is repeated again.

Convulsive tremor

the wait.

When the shade returns

to seek refuge in us.

- Streets become empty,

as do the squares -

Silence !

Invisible hands

to tear the edges of eternity,

both voice and breath roam

the timeless avenues.  

 Many thoughts,

- in reality just one -

like flowers collected in a bunch.

A thousand words, synonyms,

of blithe dashes

of a soul that seems afraid.

They end there, where they had begun.

 I took you by the hand

and taught you to fly

even thought the sky was grey

up above your tired white wings,

of existing still before beginning.

And , even light, the wind

transported you a long way, beyond

the limits of your dreams.

For an instant

my heart's time ran on,

until I found a feather and grasped it.

It was around this

that I rebuilt your dream.

Life's notes

Remain to fill up

Pages and empty spaces

without a reason.

Tomorrow, with the day

I will read again this sleepless evening

made up  of unintelligible signs

and silence.

 Give me your hand,

I will take you down to the shore !

- said the sea

to the whitest angel -

Give me an instant,

and you will know eternity !

- said time

to the impatient angel -

I didn't ask for anything

and was happy…

to have my present time.

 I listen enchanted

to the wailing adult

of a child who has already been…

adult, in the arms

of a tired mother,

of a sleepless night,

to bring back memories of her

when it was time for caresses.

On earth palettes

a crowd of sunflowers

admiring the progression of the day.

The summer crawls by

to dip in the paint brush.

Today, with heads bowed

and darkened faces,

they seem absorbed in prayer,

and that paint brush has turned into a scythe.

 Running along in the game

pauses and words,

on imaginary lines of thoughts.

Also alone I can detect much shouting.

How many people live

In my heart ?

 I would like not

to have to write

my life,

and let it be whisked away

without a word…

but if I were to stop, maybe

it would write mine for me.

Of my thinking, I think

with a thousand minds and only one

shut up or free,

flying beyond thoughts which have passed

and thoughts to come

and escapes the moment by thinking

beyond the door of the present.

There were old men

at the windows

shouting life

towards the empty streets,

listening to their existence

hidden inside the years…

We were also there

wearing muddied shorts,

with scratched knees.

The sky is what is left of yesterday

and hurrying clouds of memories.