Il confine di un attimo (Life) (Italian Edition)
E abbiamo ripreso il gioco, ti ho baciato la mano e di nuovo ti ho chiesto: Contessina, che bella sorpresa incontrarvi! A teatro Conte, a teatro con maman. Then heaps of debris fill up the room and the man- his eyes shut tight- imagines proud petals on silent expanses and his confusion , now that delirium is taking shape. He spread sheets of paper on the grass, takes his pencil and writes: On the opposite bench a young woman absently reads horoscopes and predictions, she calls the little boy, discovers lines of velvety shade.
The historian gets up and with pity in his voice: The clouds are like restless monsters just above the trees, filaments of light flash through the branches like dripping stalactites. That was not the peace of a sleeping body, nor the bitter savour of bilberry which lingers in the mouth, but a cruel game made of trembling, a waiting for tragedy which a vigilant and terrible eye could command at its pleasure. The page, the butterfly, the emerald, absences of colour which disappear in the shadow comes before the thought forcing the mouth into useless words.
The wind the wave, the string… How do you believe in the useless regard if the agitation gives back whimpering, silencing the long journey of childhood? Which fire burns and which restraint? Even princes die and their servants fritter away gold and gems in the chambers of mourning and measure out in long paces the illusion of their inheritances.
Even princes die and their servants and the waiting is in the memory which forgets. What was his name? What did he look like?
Only shades visit memories and the absence of the angels last in the night of foreboding. The branch, the amber, the silk… everything repeats the the overflowing of the whys. Waiting dresses pale blue it pardons time which moves the days noiselessly: Silence is another speaking, sadness another listening. The day is a curtain closed on the confusion of actors who have changed their part. What game is it, what enchantment expected from the silent and desperate death of birches?
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The man collects up the scattered sheets and going over to the woman says: The scourge of silence leaves traces on the walls, puts letters together helter skelter, turns over discoloured pages. At night the closed room is visited by sighs, silent hands ransack drawers, immobile space becomes waiting.
But between the primrose and boredom the choice is easy if faultless platoons speak of justice in silent deserts. I answer with ill-concealed stupor, sure that immortality is only absence.
The hand wipes out the sign, rummages in our pocket, tears away the long breath of silence. Autumn feigns yet another death and wards off the ordinary remission now that, for cussedness, its eyes settle and the shade insists on being seen. The hour passes between darkened dawns and vanished colours: Crying becomes a reply, prayer likewise. Since the mystery has nether beginning nor end that night we smoked and drank red wine white a lazy pencil essayed poem: Tresses strewn on silent carpets and cloistered dreams; now that abjuration has torn out the windows the room becomes a place of ill-luck white the contingent changes the divinities and open folded edges on the pages of history.
The stuttering doubt moves in the ocean of discord, it levels hair, cuts the tresses of pale girls. The spirit fell silent watching his own image in the dressing-table mirror, sagely waiting for me to recite my lines. Then whit head bent sure of my distance: He said this scorn while the tenacious spirit challenged my silence…Then it was only a glance, his eyes skimmed my forehead trying to seize the secret from my shade. A colour, one, which melts the vertigo of the mind, one which reveals the mystery of the fables, just one, to recall the toys of childhood.
Difference is without a voice, a law fixed in the silence of glances, a call for help in a day of terror when frightened children throw stones madly. The mirror gives form to the image but it flattens the sense of words thus-glass cleaned with the paper- the man repeats that he is immortal. The mystery demands that its glass be empty, it goes away disappointed by my meagre knowledge and its is a farewell since the mortal is my daily companion. Anonymous hands whitewash walls and blot out frescoes; history moves along by fragments and the soul is just a name now that prayer becomes a game.
Meanwhile green penetrates the night, confounds dictionaries, permeates the interstices of the stage while desperate soundings search out the painting of the stone. On drowsy mountains the fire of possibility reveals the blackmail of insomnia and stretches out white linen on the declivities of forgetting.
In the corner of memory a girl exists with the pointed face of a migratory bird: In the distance the wave was sending out its voice, becoming a memory in the dropping roofs; in the open sea, at the edge of a glance, a tenacious rainbow reasserted its pact with the just. White hands mark the chests of hungry children, lead blind men to the forgotten station: It is the waiting in the mysterious desert, on the island picked out by chance on the faded map: The eyes look away from the stare and plunder the thoughts written by the anonymous one on grazed walls.
In it published a maxi single, This Is Christmas. In , he released another single, "Angels Till Dawn" with Mr. G and Get Far. Jonas Brothers World Tour in Italy was in:. Five groups took turns on stage to give fans the best of live music from March 13, Festival had to be in:. The new dates will be announced soon.
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Jonas Brothers World Tour Jonas Brothers World Tour in Italy was in: Festival had to be in: Get Far [Remixes] - EP". Retrieved from " https: Views Read Edit View history.
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