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Voglia di viaggiare

All leave should come

They share

browsing

observe

Colors

Sounds

Culture

Cathedrals

Roads

Visi

Occhi

Il rumore lontano del vento che vuole spingermi a partire

Vorrei ascoltarlo con tutto il mio cuore

Ma... c'è sempre un "ma"

E lega

Tanto

Troppo

Ma partirò

Non oggi

Ma sicuro partirò

per perdermi ancora in un NuovoMondo

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Scolari



Two pupils,
hand in hand,
forward plan;
from before the eyes
stands, severely
the austere building that
forgierà their minds.
have good eyes, full of childlike innocence
,
and proud of souls ready to do anything
to reach a goal.
They walk timidly
but without any fear;
know that their fate is not
yet been written.
I followed them, in the shadow of days

wasted and thrown ambitions.
I observe them, mesmerized,
with tired eyes;

irresistible desire to grasp those folders full of idle thoughts

lolling on shoulders
not yet sprung.
They climb the stairs,
I can not follow them,
the time is over for me
of hours spent on heavy volumes,

ignoring the words and inventing illusions ...
I stop at the foot of this staircase
;
entry into the world of tomorrow
for me is now prohibited.
will stay here, anxiously awaiting
a distracted child
lose the heavy burden

lying on his back in the balance. Only then will tend
hands

ready to pick up the pieces of dreams not yet in vain.

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Muto silence




I used to wield a pen like a deadly weapon, and with it

writing to vent anger and resentment
of pain on a piece of paper.
Fors'Egli
me punished for the ardor of my silent voice.
I can not explain otherwise

because the heart has exhausted all the words!
Melancholy, once
made me invincible. His company
devastating
filled the void of magic;
seized it with a
pen to transform it into thoughts
and not risk losing it ...
Now I know the immense loneliness.
E 'mute silence.
Clear the air where I left my complaint
free.
hands, cold, swinging in the air, clutching a weapon
powerless.
mouth, dry,
opens without a sound. I lived through

only fragments of a soul
printed in black and white over time. Now we have only

nothing more bleak.
The Muse does not speak.
My World is off.

(c) Eleanor Grana, 2009

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Men only (unpublished)



Sometimes they are not words.
hands are empty,
outstretched in the air, hungry,
anxiously waiting to be filled with inspiration that allows

to free themselves, and to impart the
soul forever

eagerly filling a canvas, or a piece of paper.
In those moments of gloomy silence,

when all that remains is a silent cry inside, then we cease to believe

to be poets, artists, or writers.
And there are only single men.
fingers, crushed,
grab anything.
Sometimes they are not words.
The mind loses its power and remains only
pain,
without possibility of release.

(c) Eleanor Grana, 2009