Love of Poetry

"My words are pure poetry and isn't poetry the language of God? the language of love, of passion of life itself?"
Jim Yates, Oh! Père Lachaise






words runing on the skin
under the tarpaulin
of a silvery lighted
bitter cold night of January
Callas singing...
and time swinging
with lyrics of "vestale"
"Les Héroines Tragiques"

words quarried from a mine called heart
honest words, words of truth,
to be kept in the dungeon of a fortress
where a fierce dragon fires toward intruders
words having no room to live out their life
words of Giulia, O Nume tutelar degli Infelici,
O! Goddess divinity of those unhappy
words that are the language of rapture under the moon
the language of love, of passion,
of life itself.
Words to be buried on the threshold of daybreak
just before the whirlwind of real life sets off
while the bliss of last night
is still lingering on our skin,
on our bodies
bodies meant to bear separation
experts in farewells
heart beats asking

you are not saying the last one, are you?
no, my love I'm not saying farewell at all
all I'm saying
is sometime between not now and never
I'll be writing you for ever

Flora