BEATITUDES – H. Vaughan: Happy those early days, when only a mile or two, I had moved away from first love. Looking back, from so far away, still I grabbed a flash of his bright face. ARCHI – V. Cardarelli: So childhood is tumbling over the world, and the essay is but a child who complains of being grown up. TRANSIT – J. Wolker: My child’s soul is dead. Today is my difficult time, I myself carried away in a coffin. A My heart is dead, and the other I have not. GATES – W. De La Mare: The years go by, sleep and silence lie, as meadows amaranth. LATEST DROPS – S. Solmi: How were sour adolescence, blond lemon life! Later, little by little, softened, broke up the acrid humor. Now, that is made soft, greenish and rotting, greedily I will squeeze the last drops. Blessed with closed eyes, I savor its extreme sweetness. ARRIVALS – E. Biagi: I got to the point that I have more memories than expected. I arrived at an age where you do not play. It is. A FEW DAYS – H. von Hofmannsthal: the Children who grow up with deep eyes, to know nothing, grow and die. All men go their own way. Sweet fruits that are born immature and fall down at night, like dead birds. They lie just a few days, then rot.
Home » POETRY » UNITED COLOURS OF AGE – They tumble blessed days, and passing, the years coming to rot.
There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you On the banks …