Panic

The sea has woken me up,
smooth, immobile to such an extent
as to seem immense crystal
like a jewel mounted in a sky
where I can merely imagine
the azure in the paining white,
pure, perfect,
milky and enveloping
faint cloak subtended
to close all the confines
of a dream lost
by my weary hesitating.
I rise slowly, estranged
from the flowing of time,
I am unable to halt
in the mortal silence
in which every sound is absorbed,
soaked in voice, song and laughter,
petrifying weeping
in a sole moment
flowing along the non-existent thread
of the relentless,
curved horizon
like wind generated
by an existing god
who wishes to remind me,
in the final analysis,
that I am alone as
I play my match
against infinity and nothing –
faceless opponents
and most adept
at shuffling the cards.
Dusk is already falling as it
shatters the instant,
I have perceived a wave,
faint reddishness
of the setting sun,
alien glare
of a boat moored.
I light the cigarette,
I think of you, it is constantly you,
the smoke is fragrant,
your flesh essential,
never again will you have to play
silent presence.

© Copyright 2023 Mauro Giovanelli “Seventy-nine writings or thereabouts”, life, love, death and the usual, second edition – “Settantanove scritti o giù di lì, vita, amore, morte, i soliti discorsi” – 2a edizione – Translation Italian-English: Philip Mc Court.