NGC 6992
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Sometimes, just before the sleep comes around me
Sweeping my eyes away, with his images
His dreams, his subtle metaphores and
His often obscure allegories that
Even though I try, striving beyond my limits,
I cannot understand and I never will,
I turn my eyes to God, so beautiful and yet
So far, sometimes,
And sometimes so close that, in the rapture
That divides watching from sleeping,
It seems to me that I could touch Him
And so, then, I barely touch Him:
But is only a reflection, elusive and flickering,
Like a portrait painted on water,
A portrait that even the sweetest and slightest touch
Shall inevitably shatter away…
And it really does not matter if that portrait, like a spell,
Shall rebuild itself once again and again, for maybe a million times,
The Artist does not care if his art, so perfect,
Must remain untouchable and elusive...
Some other times, before the sleep may catch me,
I turn my eyes to myself,
That myself who’s a Saint and a Sinner
So small and yet so great
Hidden inside me
Maybe better than me...
And so, in the darkness of the Night that surrounds me
Swept away by my thoughts
And by my memories, now so close and then so far
Tired, because of my fears and anxieties,
I indulge myself up to the waves of the hours
Hours that come and go, in a strange procession,
Too slow or too fast,
But not a single hour, anyway, lasts an hour only
In the Night that surrounds me
When my soul gropes in the darkness...
A starless and silent Night
A peaceful and yet shattered Universe
One beginning and one end, so close,
As close as the trails and the lights
Of a beautiful new Town, that is waiting for me
At the end of this road...
And so, in that peace that only the Awareness,
When enlightened by Pain and Hope can give,
I realize that nothing is really important
And, in the same time, that everything must be...
The face of an ant reminds me of buried brothers
Buried in the sand and fog of Time that has gone by
I cannot see them, but I can hear their voices:
They whisper the sweetest words
And so my eyes, flooded by useless tears, close.
And finally, there’s only the Night.
Paolo C. Fienga - "Poesie"
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