Ma-la-voglia by Davide Rocco Colacrai

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There’s in the short froth of a palpitation

a God waiting like a chrysalis

creating the waves’ host

on which lazes my name

summer dust on figs are words

when sunset makes them red-hot by pulp

at the sunset’s forgiveness where the silence salt,

the shore burnt like skin smelling Malvasia

the scorching stones at the olives’ bottom

they sigh like the heart’s untamed rings,

when the fishermen offshore suspend the nostalgia of the sea

and undo the distance from who we let go

in the line of the horizon

so many stories tell the rocks,

some get caught on the nets,

other collected on the water’s edge like shells,

who smells them is a wet snout of a dog

or the crying in which was dried out a dream.

My city is sleeping.

The pain washed by the seaweeds at the fan of Mistral.

I’m counting all my happinesses

on the noise’s end,

while a seagull is carring love affairs in dialect,

and the sign of the cross a lucky charm.

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