Due cose belle ha il mondo: amore e morte.
- GIACOMO LEOPARDI

When the silence takes the meadows as the sparrows cease their twitter
while the sunset casts the shadows of our bodies in the sand,
when you walk amongst the shady birches where the crows still flitter,
you may see a naked lady who will take you by the hand.
Then your heart will play a forte with a beat that makes you fly:
every man must meet Amorte, and who meets her has to die.

Hades' task and Eros' unction made her what she is. On Venus
- Mars and Saturn in conjunction - she was born when Time began;
now the mistress of seduction roams the planet of our genus,
brings fulfilment and destruction to the soul of every man.
Where she walks the air grows colder, Life stands still where'er she rests
with the raven on her shoulder and the rose between her breasts.

She will find you in the badlands, she will find you in the mountains,
she will find you in the wetlands and wherever you may hide;
but, when bringing your oblation at the Phlegethontic fountains,
you'll forget your trepidation, and you'll never leave her side.
She will take you to the far land of whose shores you never knew
and adorn you with a garland made of myrtle and of yew.

Hold your breath! Your queen is coming, striding like the vain flamingo,
thirsty like the fickle hummingbird, and full of pride and grace;
she will touch you with her magic warmth, Concupiscence’ soft lingo
and her force. You're blessed and tragic: Love and Death have found your trace!
Paralysed, you're staring at her form; whate'er you chanced to see,
think or feel before you met her will escape your memory.

Say adieu to prudent Pallas, say goodnight to shining Phoebus -
welcome two-faced Ate's malice, Cytherea's tyranny:
Gloominess will be your lover, Goat and Song will be your rebus,
and, enraptured, you'll discover Dionysian ecstasy.
Like the butterfly you'll cherish every moment of the game,
like the butterfly you'll perish once you touched the naked flame.

On the wall her shadow dances like a doomed celestial creature,
all of your admiring glances are returned with mutual lust.
Seize the night, then woe betide you; lewdness is her only feature
as she's lying down beside you with your arm around her bust.
No more sunbeams, no more sky light will you see, no morning dew:
you have met your swan of twilight, and you've met your swansong, too.

You're enthralled by the coherence of her actions, you're enchanted
by her aquiline appearance as she'll focus on her prey.
Nightly gore sustains her power; when your last request was granted,
you'll be fading like the flower that but once has hailed the day.
Look into her orbs, reflecting naught like the Arabian bird;
still you know what she's expecting, though she'll never say a word.

She will kiss you as she grapples you; so sweet's her kiss and bitter,
like an orchard full of apples, like a pomegranate tree -
petrified, you'll watch her sable hair that makes her bosom glitter
and her sanguine face, unable from her mystic traits to flee.
She's the queen of false pretences you refuse to fly or doubt,
she's the hourglass of your senses when your time is running out.

Captured by her solemn beauty, you will leave the world behind you,
poisoned by the rich and fruity draught you tasted when you kissed,
you will nevermore go back and gaze at her while she will blind you
with the rubies round her neck and with the diamonds round her wrist.
Softly she will come and see and win and make you pine awhile
with her eyes of ebony and cherry lips that never smile.

She will be your heart's disaster, she will be your life's completion,
you will be her pet and master, meet her blessing and her curse:
her entrancing touch will thrill you, you'll caress her breast's accretion,
and her toxic look will kill you as your pupils melt in hers.
She is a malefic demon in angelic camouflage;
you're her captivated freeman, ever chasing the mirage.

You will render on your lyre merry airs, divine and fervent,
with the spout of your desire you will raise the Stygian flood;
in the shade of Darkness' pinion you will be her will-less servant,
for the night is her dominion, and her nourishment your blood.
She will be your last decision, and your destiny you'll find
in the beauty of the vision and the sadness of your mind.

With the tang of belladonna on your tongue, you'll moan and shiver,
lying at her feet you'll honour her amazing pulchritude;
Acheron will soothe your troubled heart before you cross the river,
and your vigour will be doubled, and your strength will be renewed
for the final chord. Your flora will be covered by her locks,
and the presents of Pandora will escape the opened box.

No man lived unless he relished every drop from Passion's chalice;
while her breasts like two embellished Trojan bucklers stand erect,
their embossed magenta centres will invite you to the palace
whence there's no return. Who enters has to treat her with respect -
then Life's stream becomes a wadi as she'll drain her victim's soul;
she'll consume your mind and body like the fire consumes the coal.

One fine day I know she'll call me when I least expect her coming;
glee and terror will befall me when at last I meet my date.
I can feel her coming nearer, hear the distant thunder drumming,
see her image getting clearer as the herald of my fate.
She's the first of Charon's daughters, she is Himeros' fair bride;
at the dark Cocytus' waters all her gallants loved and died.

O'er my head the pipistrelli and the robins sail the aether,
and I'll board her father's galley with my empress hand in hand.
I won't hurry, I won't tarry when my lifeblood I'll bequeath her,
for the swift nocturnal ferry brings me to my native land.
Pull the oars and let me clench her hand, let’s leave this worldly shore:
I'll set out for the adventure that this life prepared me for!

And she'll mutely give her orders as I watch her flow'rs exposure,
and she'll take me past the borders of what's known to mortal eyes.
With her gracile hand she settles my existence at its closure,
and I spread the damask petals at the gates of Paradise.
Dour and stern is her expression, Hell and Heaven are in reach:
I will taste the fruit of passion, I will split the firmest peach.

And I will not mind her bossy manner as I grasp with pleasure
six foot something of most glossy depilated hazel skin -
she will take me, she will love me with Philotes' fullest measure;
her retrorse physique above me, I will taste the wine of sin.
My destroyer and protector comes to show me Lust's abyss:
she will drink Elysian nectar, and I'll give her Lethe's kiss.

Loving me in every fashion, she'll discover and unfold me;
whisp'ring in the dead of passion, I will kiss her silky face
and her tresses and her glowing rosy cheeks. I'll let her hold me
tight and ever tighter, knowing she won't loosen her embrace.
Paramour of pains and gladness, queen of sorrows and delight,
goddess of all joy and sadness, take me in your arms tonight!

Meet me at the hidden quay, and there we'll hold our rendezvous:
you shall give your love to me, and I will give my life to you.

From the old country of the god who died
an image called me in my iv'ry tow'r,
and soon the scent of that domain's blue flow'r
filled room and mind, and therefore I complied.

Since then I travelled far and wide to find
the land that has no ruler and no rule
apart from Live and let live where at a pool
the flower blooms for whom so many pined.

It's often that I see the rugged hills
of Anarcadia in thoughts that bring
forth memories I couldn't have and sing
of longing that discomfits and fulfils.

And though my life-long search is doomed to be
futile since Anarcadia is gone
with the blue flower, I must carry on
to look for her as she has looked for me.

She won't be found; her season is too far,
but what endeavour could be nobler than
the quest for what is lost to gods and man,
for the blue flow'r of Anarcadia?

Spirit of Beauty! tarry yet awhile,
they are not gone, thine ancient votaries.
-OSCAR WILDE

From the river's bank I see
fishing boats from days of yore
which in peace return ashore
as I listen patiently
to the whisper of the Nile -
Sadness, linger yet awhile.

Now the day's as good as done:
Evening's calm enchants the land,
and you gently take my hand.
Roses face the setting sun
as it gilds our lonely isle -
Sadness, linger yet awhile.

Night is falling; we're a part
of the beauty of its stream.
Here I sit beside a dream,
with my spirit and my heart
buried in your tender smile -
Sadness, linger yet awhile.

Come with me to Lotus Valley
where the colours cure the blind,
walk with me down Sunset Alley,
leave the Road of Cares behind.

Hold my hand at Birches' Bowers
where the tender lily grows,
crown my head with daisy flowers
and your body with a rose.

Lead me to the Pastel River
and the Lake of Swans between
sloping cliffs where violets quiver
and the firs are evergreen.

Over us, besmeared and ragged,
Peasants' Heaven hangs unfurled;
love me on the wild and cragged
mountaintops outside the world.

Let us shun their slave-rowed galley,
and their peasants' joys let's spurn:
come with me to Lotus Valley,
never to return!

The moon-white birch has dyed her dainty leaves
with lucid saffron in a bid to mark
this bright occasion with a joyful spark
before she lets them fall amongst the sheaves.

And at the hedge the mountain ash has hung
her branches with vermilion berries, proud
to do her bit and feed the noisy crowd
of blackbirds and the thrushes with their young.

And past the fields the chestnut in the wood
gilded her foliage and spreads maroon
nuts in the forest as the afternoon
sun shines upon the season as it should.

And while the others wave their autumn flags
the whin bush still shows off her vernal rags.

Ships and boats are hibernating
in the still canals, the river
rolls along like contemplating
o'er a future yet unknown,
and seasonally slow molecules deliver
the pensive wailing of a saxophone.

And the melody enriches
the experience of jolly
folk who promenade the bridges
and, in groups or on their own,
subconsciously embrace the melancholy
and pensive wailing of the saxophone.

And the tune is like a trusted
theme that makes the actors calmer:
city life appears adjusted
to what seems the widely known
musical score of some nostalgic drama,
the pensive wailing of a saxophone.

Some turn round and try locating
the elusive jazz musician
at the port who is creating
airs to lift their monotone
existence with a passionate rendition,
the pensive wailing of his saxophone.

In frozen dreams of icebergs in the sea
and arctic winds whose forces grow,
I feel and smell the cold intensity
of crystals from the crunching floe.

In happiness the heavens are disguised
and swallow every silent cry,
the clouds stand still as if they're paralysed
like cotton statues in the sky.

We have the Goddess of the North aboard,
and from her chains there's no release:
despair is the adventurer's reward
and death the crown of Beauty's peace.

I greet the vernal spirits who have found me
as trains of people go to Mass,
I'm one with furze and linden trees around me
and chicks who frolic in the grass.

With broom to stick between my lover's tresses,
with church bells to ring in the start
of Nature's year, with verdure's brisk caresses
I plant a spring within my heart.

All images of pulchritude dismissing
that I had known, I watched their art:
they faced each other as though they were kissing,
and with their necks they shaped a heart.

Whene'er my heart endarkens in December,
my fancy once again will take
me to the calmest dream I can remember:
two swans upon a peaceful lake.

The crow who mends her nest with every rose
she seizes in the dead of night
croaks at my window; as the west wind blows,
she takes me on a mystic flight.

Abandoned by the sorceress who stole
the innocence of many a man
I now, like dying embers midst the coal,
must perish or catch fire again.

The melancholy season
is handing out her boons
with frigid hands, the reason
for frosty nights and tunes.

Once the last cattle drover
retires, she’ll softly spread
her sheet of silence over
the living and the dead.

While all the world is sleeping,
the stillness is complete;
there’ll be no joy nor weeping
beneath her dusky sheet.

And it will not be shifted
before the snowdrops bring
good news and it is lifted
by pioneers of Spring.

She is not dead! She is not dead!
the Naiads chant; primulas ope,
and last year's tulips lift their head
with doubt and hope.

She is not dead! She is not dead!
the whin bush joins in the refrain,
and every swallow that had fled
is home again.

She is not dead! She is not dead!
amongst the lambs the grazing crows
sing and the swans who make their bed
where cattail grows.

She is not dead! She is not dead!
The daisy dominates the scene,
and every moonstone birch is clad
in vernal green.

She lives! She lives! the bells ring out,
the joyful tiding now is spread
like wildfire as the sparrows shout:
She is not dead!

A heart of gold and wings of alabaster,
like cirri that surround the sun they shield,
you have no servant and accept no master,
a flow'r amongst the flowers of the field.
You are the eye of poets as they pass,
as singular as those who bloom beside you in the grass.

You are the spring of lovers' dreams and visions,
you are the summer of the joyful mind,
you are the goal of butterflies' ambitions,
and where the jaunty country maidens bind
their chaplets to salute the age of light,
you mirror the empyrean, so radiant and bright.

You are the smile of Nature as she renders
her gifts to every living thing that sees,
you're Cytherea's herald that engenders
the feeling of a passion and a peace
no man should live without, and where you grow
the lovers have no need to ask, for they already know.

You beam with humble pride when you're adorning
the hands of happy children as they store
you in a vase and water you each morning
like many generations did before.
Since time began you haven't changed your form
and face the sun the selfsame way you face the thunderstorm.

Where is the cobalt cornflower today?
Where once our eyes have sailed in fields of blue
to find that fleeting peace we thought we knew,
we meet the most monotonous display.

Only in memory we walk the way
at which Centaurea cyanus grew
so plentifully, and we sometimes view
old photographs of her profuse array.

Now Nature's copious fanned-out bouquet
has faded from the fields, and just a few
lone flowers bloom along the road whose hue
reminds us peace and beauty cannot stay.

Soon there'll be times, like in the days of yore,
when the blue flower will be found no more.

Ladybirds linger on daisies, the butterflies swing on your blossoms
as the sweet nightingale sings of your promise, your vow to the creatures;
dewdrops are gilding the bud of your primrose, your meadow is blooming,
apple trees greet the warm rays of your caring affection, and kindly
twixt the tall pillars and stones of your temple, by fairies erected,
streams your encouraging light. As your blue sky is gracefully hov'ring,
swans woo the she-swans beneath your slim birches, and poems of fancy,
childlike and hopeful, are written beside the pure source in your mountains,
gently inspired by the sound of the whispering spring. Milk and honey
flow through your garden, the scent of a goddess, from heaven descending,
fills the refreshing soft air, and the dreamer is meekly awaiting
future and fate; as a mild breeze is blowing, I mutely set sail.
Antelopes frolic in flickering vineyards, flamingoes are lazing,
colourful flowers invite to your feast of the living, your river
glitters, reflecting the fire of eternity; cheerfully chanting
every wave is rejoicing, your orange trees dazzle the dancer,
music of violins governs the space, sultry visions of lilies
move through my phantasy's eyes as your merciless sun with his power
shines on the tower that stands in your valley of roses. I'm sweating;
young is your blessing, and young is the heat of my lustified senses,
potent the tremor and strong the volcano's eruption: exploding,
forcefully spreading his blaze o'er the plains his ecstatic sensation
drives through my mind and my body with arrows of flames till the lava
chills in the wind, till the shivering limbs and the spirit exhaust.
Sparrows are twittering loudly, your chestnut is waving her branches,
gravely the storm clouds are gathering, mirrored in troublesome water,
ripe fruits are falling, brown leaves whirl their way to the ground. Your abandoned
castle is lodging your owls and your hedgehogs. They're looking for shelter;
then the first lightning is striking the soil, and the following thunder,
tearing your firmament, scaring your world with the noise of his anger,
wakens your dragon who fiercely begins with his work of destruction:
raging against the monsoon, mangling corpses and burning the deserts!
Wildly your bay whips your beach with her arm, and the galloping horses
fly from the shore as your furious monster comes closer. The treasure,
lost in the battle of old, disappears in my memory's lowlands;
there, like so many belovèd immortal effects, it will cease.
Silence is smoothing your peaceful wide ocean and hushing your forest,
calm is your darkness, no sound can be heard from the hills of devotion,
sadly the willow is weeping for comfort, the pastures are quiet.
Only your raven is croaking and spreads his black wings; from the distance
stares your pale moon through the ruins whilst wand'ring alone through the aether,
covering ivy and walls with the veil of her tenderness - nothing,
nothing remains, and the pictures that pictured your glory and horror
drown in the picture of stillness. Your blanket is secretly lowered,
hiding whatever there was and whatever will be, but your pleasures
still touch the heart with a dagger of steel as the soul is expiring:
dead is the Earth now, and cool is the grave, and the slumbering watchman
listens, unconsciously humming the tune, to the nightingale's song.

'Beauty is truth, truth beauty', - that is all
ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
-JOHN KEATS

Begone, stern Socrates! Your rule is finished,
and flesh again shall cover every bone
when Science' tyranny will be diminished,
when Love and Beauty will ascend the throne.
The bubbles of your knowledge have to burst
when Epicurus comes to quench our thirst!

Demeter had her kingdom decorated
with rainbow flowers, silvered by the dew,
and men admired the jewels she created,
their colours and their fragrance as they grew.
You poison them to make them last; they're dried,
they look like plastic, smell of pesticide.

Four horses through the azure skies were riding
who carried Helios in his golden bowl;
from East to West the shining god was gliding,
delighting every spirit, every soul.
You brought him down and threw him on your brothers
to study the effect it has on others.

Ah, well I can remember heaven's brightness
in nights of old: I watched with glowing face
Selene's purity, the beaming whiteness
of her enchanting look, her cooling rays;
but then, with one small step, you have defiled
my virgin mother when I was a child.

When Paris made his choice, the incarnation
of Beauty, he displayed his splendid taste:
his love for Helen grazed our inspiration
and laid his father's wealthy kingdom waste.
First you denied that this was history,
and now you take away the mystery.

Begone, stern Socrates! This world knew pleasures,
and full of blossoms was the lover's speech,
and man paid homage unto woman's treasures,
and woman blessed his offerings. You teach
the reproductive system, euphemised;
Philotes roams the desert, sterilised.

On swiftest feet the Amazon was flying,
and men adored the virgin huntress' grace;
they knew they'd gain her love or they'd be dying,
and Atalanta always won the race.
You analyse her entrails and her brawn
to find the diet she was living on.

Red roses, twins of Eos, used to cover
the woods and mountains, pleasing hearts and eyes,
and now and then I'd pluck one for a lover,
a symbol of Adonis' sacrifice.
But you pick thousands on the hills and slopes
and squeeze their petals under microscopes.

When Pegasus on satin wings commences
to open with his hoof the holy well,
wild words and pictures flow across our senses
and vivid scenes of paradise and hell;
you take apart each poem and each play
and tell our readers what we try to say.

Each new-found answer seems a great sensation
to you - you hope another day will bring
the explanation for the explanation,
you want to gain control of every thing.
You lead astray defeated Nature's course
and idly show us how to fight her force.

Begone, stern Socrates, with your suggestions!
You still know nothing, as you said yourself.
This is not much; you're only breeding questions
of prey and put them nicely on a shelf.
A thousand poets march across the land:
your temple of dissection shall not stand!

Oh help us, Dionysus, with your madness,
Apollo, let us hear your battle cry,
and make this house of death a house of gladness:
the mortal son of Ate has to die!
Raise Eros' altar in the emptied hall
and Aphrodite's statue by the wall!

Where are your roses, Garden of the Sunset?
What happened to your daisies' bashful beauty?
Where do you hide the vineyards of your blessing
that were so sweet, so fragrant and so fruity?
The veil is now removed, and you are dressing
yourself in common rags and mask your face;
black smoke and toxic air are now oppressing
the senses that are searching for your grace.

Where are your roses, Garden of the Sunset?
Oh, say your orchids' summer is not over!
Where can we find your lofty birches' bower
and in their shade your buttercups and clover?
Now ugly parasitic creepers tower
above your palm trees and above our heads,
and we're allowed to pick one single flower
where once our fathers lived in flowerbeds.

Where are your roses, Garden of the Sunset?
Who took your pure white lily from its pillow,
your scarlet poppy and your yellow gentian,
your pinkish lotus and your purple willow?
Old poets sometimes speak to us and mention
your colours while we listen in dismay,
and we imagine, full of comprehension,
what you would look like if you were not grey.

Where are your roses, Garden of the Sunset?
Who chopped your apple trees and cut your berries,
fed to the sows your pomegranates, peaches,
and to the cows your figs and crimson cherries?
The fruits on branches that the hand still reaches
aren't ripe and have a sour and pungent taste,
overripe windfalls that the mucor bleaches
lie on the ground to decompose and waste.

Where are your roses, Garden of the Sunset?
When will the primrose bloom upon your meadow
that witnessed many loves and many battles,
when comes the sunshine and the cooling shadow?
Still pale and withered are the poisoned petals
of all your flow'rs, and every lover mourns.
By weeds your soil is conquered and by nettles,
and you are governed by a crown of thorns.

Wedged between palms, the temples are
pressed by their deity
who's due again to reinforce
his rule and tyranny.

The votary kneels on the ground,
her eyes are opened wide;
she moves her lips in worship till
her god will come inside.

Life has a thousand shades of grey; the dying
white skies have fled the sunset's ruby strings,
and from the hills of morning I've been flying
so long now that I cannot feel my wings.
And still we watch the others and remember:
the birches and the rowan trees have painted our November.

The year has gone to sleep now, only after
it raised the bushy brow of humankind
once more, and yet the merriment and laughter,
the rowan and the birch are left behind.
But still we watch the others and remember:
the birches and the rowan trees have painted our November.

The meadows stand in fullest bloom,
the butterflies approach with haste,
each perching sparrow is a groom,
the daisies blossom and the broom,
and of the rose the bees will taste.

The air is filled with love and songs,
the butterflies approach with haste,
each creature is where he belongs,
undone are all of last year's wrongs,
and of the rose the bees will taste.

The rivulet's soft music sounds,
the butterflies approach with haste,
the perfume of the woods surrounds
the pleasant hillocks and the mounds,
and of the rose the bees will taste.

Heavy with clouds the sky turns grey,
the butterflies pass by with haste,
the sparrows have all flown away
nor any other creatures stay,
the bees are dead, the rose lies waste.
Oh pleasures under Odin's sky,
why do you cease before I die?

(Inspired by Oscar Wilde's From Spring Days to Winter)

My messengers have done their duty,
yet of your grace I haven't heard;
there is a certain kind of beauty
where language lacks the certain word.
I'd give my life and thousand more
to love you on the Trojan shore.

Love, my heart, and love, my body,
with the swan's eternal grace:
spread your wings around your lover,
dance about the waves she stirs.

Sing, my lips, and sing, my spirit,
with the swan's enchanting voice:
sing farewell to Art and Beauty,
let the best song be your last.