From The Dream of Mari; Fabrizio De Andrè In Womb damp, dark the temple, the shadow was cold, swollen with incense and the angel came down, like every evening, to teach me a new prayer: then, suddenly, I broke my hands and my arms became wings, when he asked me - I know the summer for a day, for a moment, ran to see the color of the wind. Really flew over the houses, beyond the gates, gardens, streets, and then slipped in the valleys where the olive flowering embraces the screw. We went down there, where to look for the day you lose yourself hidden among the green, and he spoke as when we pray, and at the end of every prayer had a vertebra in my back.
From Postkarten; Edoardo Sanguineti
My eyes are burned into your eyes, inside your parcel : burned are burned as spiders, such as newspapers, such as days: my eyes ferns and hay and wind : that are burned as hands burned, as burning glasses, as a pipe : my eyes are burning like the eyes that are mouths : singing: and you sing this song in this special department at San Martino. I realize that I hoped to be reborn: the right shape and that, instead, for me, it was then that I carry on me: my development was arrested at a stage of sweaty feet, nostrils of excessive (and, in most , excessively irritable) of ribs distorted as overcooked chops , dandruff, several of hump (the rest, if you care, I'll add alone, here): I arrived at these conclusions in a room called "Gobulíe dome," because it holds its blue domes, in fact, in the head, and that is a glaciers -Cana (and in short, a tea house), where I discussed with a chain Predrag cosmopolitanism-nationalism-imperialism (and internationalism alternative) to the telegram, however, I gave up, because I realize that I die now, I do not need.
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