No, I’m not a poet.
I’m just an interpreter of tales in which tears are drops of longing…
Tales, in which I hear through my ears
echoes of an invisible and indivisible world…
I sometimes like to pour myself a little red
and sweet wine of the silence cup,
the inner silence is erupting from me,
which seems to me to be a deaf-mute dispute between heart and reason…

No, I’m not a poet.
Only words are fighting against me,
but still, I feel my heart is lifting in their arms,
with the same intensity as at the beginning…
The letters in my words do not need arguments,
they just want to free themselves,
to touch souls more and more, joining in verses,
their destinies being knotted with rhymes…
No, I’m not a poet.
I’m just a human beeing who, for a few moments,
has a breath of inspiration,
swallowing with greed the air from the room
where I lay down my silence, my love, my longing,
trying to transform words into a vibrant power, almost tangible.
Sometimes I use words with a killing flesh of attraction,
like a masterful crowning of the letters that take hold of my pen…
and sometimes with a gentle, sweet glance,
whispering voluptuously, making my rhymes fall on their knees…
No, I’m not a poet.
I just measure the universe with a hungry, critically eye-catching curiosity,
while the aroma of my coffee is flowing in the air,
escaping from the espresso,
mysteriously and dazzling…
I just caress the words on the pavements of the lyrics
peeled by the rains of the heart where the letters are sad and lonely…

Now I retire with a slight bow,
as an unspoken satisfaction, in front of all those who read me,
in front of the ones you know me…
A delusive lust to write a few lyrics has taken me by surprise…
maybe about truth, maybe about numb dreams,
maybe about the cure of lost hearts… which is love!


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