The mist – part I: Voices from the brink
by The Obscure
NIGHT OF TEARS
Night of rain,
night of lonely souls
wandering across
empty space.
Night of screaming voices,
night of distances,
Night of remembrance
dark and withdrawn.
In this nightmare night:
rain.
Rain … it is said
washes and purifys.
But the rain will not erase
the emptiness and pain
or sadness from this soul,
on this night
of tears.
MY RESTLESS CITY
Sweet, sweet dear.
Come
through the storm …
Welcome
to my rainy city.
Darling.
Here are the roads
you were looking for,
here is the fire that you craved …
Do not be surprised,
There are no masks in my city.
Here is the night that you longed for:
no pretences or acts: darkness.
Do not be shy now!
Here are the demons,
in my city of winter!
No sparkles or sequins:
Here is my night party.
Here is the music you were expecting!
Come,
throw off your mask!
This is the City of Saints
at the Gates of Hell!
Do you fly away, now,
to your beautiful landscapes,
to your place
of holograms?
Here is the whipping wind,
this is my restless city!
WINTER NIGHT
Silence …
Winter Night
travailed by the wind,
beaten.
Silence and stillness, on this
winter’s night …
A distant train whistle
and I am thoughtful:
in your silence wrapped.
Winter Night,
you look dumb and dormant
though you are
still alive.
You make yourself heard
through your silence,
you make yourself see
by the light
of the stars
that shine for you,
for who you live…
Night in winter,
so pleasingly
romantic and decadent.
TO NATURE
Oh!, nature: you prostitute!
you bequeathed me unhappy days
when I was a child
and deprived me
of my peer’s games
Oh! you confined my soul
to a heap of
putrid ordure.
Oh! I screamed my pain
but you were deaf,
preferring to follow your
bitter plans!
Never joy without pain, you gifted me!
Tears and anxiety:
were your awful daughters,
chosen as wives for me!
Prostitute. You laughed at me:
hear the cry of your child!
2/10/2001
Dreams of love
disappeared in a flash …
Suddenly a storm …
The pain clamoured …
and then the voice was broken,
lost in an empty existence,
a vain hope.
A story that repeats itself …
An expectation deceived,
a desire,
nourished with hope,
delayed…
and then discharged wretchedly
in the few lines of a book,
in which the usual story is told.
A bitter taste of a passion
aborted.
A pain that aches.
THE ANGUISH
Silence
filled
with bitter loneliness.
On the horizon
a gray sky
tearing in pain.
The hands of a clock,
embedded in empty walls,
pulse …
Yet time stands
still in it’s bitter existence.
Nature in pain laments,
perishing even in the spring.
Anguish:
it seems to dominate
my life.
THE GUITAR
Look at the guitar
lying on the ground.
How many notes it had played for her:
in the silence of the night,
at dusk,
in the glow of the day.
But now it is still, silent.
Not a string vibrates for her,
not a note utters the guitar,
anymore.
The player is injured,
left alone to his fate.
No note will sound more!
It is there still: motionless, neglected guitar
pervading the mind of the troubled
player.
2000/2001
Francesco Di Bernardo
Thanks to my editor Carolina Bode
