To the bone – Fino all’osso – Până la os

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In this plastic age
we meticulously assemble dreams
humanity’s common goal
The consumption
Hells are happening
between a tick and a tack
Heavens are promised
purgatory is left with the pragmatism
of the passing seconds
we carefully polish vices, the virtues
get mixed up in expectations and
we apocalyptically live the extraordinary
deeply suffering from the burden of the inflated Ego
in this age we continuously plasticate errors,
by passing them as special merits
Who suffered more
in the celebrity-for-one-moment parade,
in the parade of imagined loves
nobody, nobody, nobody
can rid himself of the contaminated self,
of the norms of an imposed normal
nobody puts on the echo of his own insult
to the bone
we are saturated with own importance that
just The Death doesn’t contests…

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In quest’età di plastica
meticolosamente imballiamo sogni
Obiettivo comune dell’umanità è il consumo
tra un “tic” e un “tac” stanno…

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a tram named … No Name – Un tram che si chiama … Nonsichiama – Un tramvai numit …nenumit

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Today I didn’t live my dosage of bitter nostalgia
necessarily bitter
I didn’t drink enough of my woman, no debt collector rang my door bell, and so,
for a while, I can get out of myself and imagine the wood plank
of a bench in the park on which without a doubt, lovers and bewildered will sit regardless
.
– a sort of summary of the day kills any lyrical attempt
on the way to work, the tram takes me (it would be incorrect to say that I am taking the tram…)
a stop next the maternity hospital and drops me a stop before the cemetery
you would find it an irony, a cynical thing, I am finding it great… when it’s not coming late
and every time I perceive it as a sort of initiation path, the tramcar driver becoming the embodiment of a modern Pythia
what…

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open heart like an open wound – cuore come una ferita aperta – cord deschis ca o rană

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you can’t equip a soul with automatic doors
nor with blinds, around itself the windows are spherical.. in this garden,
like in any other soul, the gazebo wouldn’t need an orchestra,
the whole lost and found again Self sings to another fragment of you
a sort of waste of love and peace that can only be handled by the Heavens
that us, you and I, imagine “as on Earth”, not the other way around…
in this state, look, even the statues can lose their way… in the visible sound

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non si può mettere all’anima delle porte automatiche
né tende, intorno a sé, le finestre sono sferiche
… in questo giardino,
come in qualsiasi altra anima, il gazebo non avrebbe bisogno di un’orchestra,
cantano un intero per il tutto perduto e ritrovato ad un altro frammento di sé
una sorta di spreco d’amore e di pace che può essere…

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I have never seen – non ho mai visto – n-am văzut

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Real poetry is written by the one who
is afraid to be a poet, or doesn’t even know that he is one
– you, with your loud applauses, disturb comas,
Push meanings- loose meanings
The real poetry is just in the air, to be inhaled plenary
with both of the nostrils… and the writing
is merely a bitter vice, disease, pleasure, intention, heresy, trifle..
and only the bitter ink can write poetry and today not in my quill or yours
Because I haven’t seen yet a poet with feathers

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La vera poesia è scritta da chi
ha paura di essere un poeta, o non sa nemmeno che lui è uno
– Voi, con i vostri applausi rumorosi, disturbate le virgole,
spingete significati – perdete significati
La poesia vera è solo nell’aria, si può essere inalata pienamente
con entrambe le narici … e la scrittura
è solo un amaro…

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two thirds water – due terzi acqua – două treimi apă

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the longing haunts over waters
especially the helplessness
the passionate loves tense awaiting the new wave
And that is why I am swimming through my humble making, two thirds water
a drop of wine, a drop of dreams, recklessness, vain and genius so that you could say
that I am a teardrop

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sopra sulle acque stregano le nostalgie e
soprattutto l’impotenze,
imminenti amori, tese in attesa della nuova ondata…
Ed è per questo che sto nuotando attraverso il mio umile sè fatto da due terzi acqua
una goccia di vino, una goccia di sogni, imprudenze, vanità e genio in modo che
potresti dire che sono una lacrima

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deasupra apelor bântuie dorul
neputinţele îndeosebi
iubirile iminente stau încordate noului val
şi de aceasta înot prin biata mea alcătuire două treimi apă
un strop vin, un strop visuri, nesăbuinţă, zadar şi geniu încât
ai zice că-s o lacrimă

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riding a wave, together – sulla cresta dell’onda, insieme – pe val, împreună

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the tales of the second are written by the age
in a raindrop fits the entire Earth –
to speak about eternity, I would only need the beginning of a fairytale
once upon a time… and we find it unique
too much of a mystery and it will remain that way for a while… Once upon a time the chain that held the time without a verb broke and ever since
The Universe is wandering in its mind until the echo of the first sound looses its way
– Me, having been writing here about the second for over a quarter of century, and you who
without a doubt, will be reading, together, we are riding the wave of the echo, a sort of electrons between times and waters
Or maybe we are stones skipping the glossy surface of I don’t know what hand to whom we owe…

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