Ivan Dobnik - Vilenica

Nocturne
Pierluigi Cappello · 71
At such a short distance from myself
axis and darkness of my gravitation
I burst into the mind of who I am
celebrating the rising of sleep:
here it is the lost land, night
summer wind come
wind who takes me away and makes me turn crimson
and a nocturne comes which sets down
like a father’s hand
but where are you going but where
ma ‘ndolà vastu, ce fastu, tu, garibaldìn
you so ordinary
you were ten light years of age
the sails were moved by the same breeze
you had two hands one little face
ten fingers to count the years
and a whole piece of ground, feathered with freshness;
you had of yourself
what was enough of yourself.
Interior daytime
To say what I keep for myself
to say what, while reading
a score which would keep the sky
aloft, forever aloft, for every page listened to
in the smoke
within every petrified throat
here, where I did not want
within the noise from before
the noise from after
where one always finds oneself again
when a wind, an outline
after it was not understood
and something like a flock takes off
fleeing from the fire
a note, from behind the panes, a voice
a short whisper of poets.