E saranno i tamburi della storia
a battere degli uomini il desìo
a caracollare sotto gli eserciti
che, di mano ferma,
scriveranno spartiti, quadri e fogli,
tuonando come Thor tuona
battendo martelli sulla terra,
Midgard che ci compete
più di quanto s'attenda
il seorpente del Mondo.
Mentre orde di ombre di Goti
s'allinenano sotto l'ultima cattedrale
mentre il cielo si tinge di sangue
e ritorna a ciò che Mosè impose,
ritorna tutt'uno col mare,
l'oceano-cielo che sussurra
un fatale segreto:
- Basta un tuo fulmine -
e musicheremo il bene dal male,
scintille d'ozono a portar via.
AS HIMSELF
- the Rob's
- Roma, Italy
- He was born in a lazy tuesday.Just purple flowers around his cradle.Silence and purple flowers.The ancient Fathers whisper their secrets in his ears, before he went away, stolen by the wind, blessed by the moon."You are a travelling man" they said him.The roads of his life were just placed in the other side of our world, but when he became a man he felt the emptiness of the desert,and the acrid smell of the asphalt from the streets of the unknown. So he began writing poetry, singing against the night walls, searching for his home, taking his bag. He was a travelling man. And that's just a chosen destiny tale.
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