Poetry of Davide Rocco Colacrai

AUGUST PAIN

I cannot wait for a star that chooses to fall for me,
to plunge into my gravity and to appear like an angel,
to talk to me, to avoid together fear,
the arcane game of life,
that pain that makes the universe a grief,
far away from the summer.

With my nose upward,
I imagine encounters and wounds,
trajectories that knot themselves like snakes,
correspondences and delays,
absences we devote ourselves to, in order to name them,
imitations and silences,

hopes where we search for each other.

There's not a truth in the celestial hand.

The day burns like the repetition of a wait
on the parvis that is quiet,
the night cools down the constellations of the world
on the cross of the sea.

There are stories hosed down by love.

The shadow of my chair tights the crying,
the heart axis in half.

The fleshy revolutions of eternity are dreams,
metamorphosis of borders and abandonment,

time that curses.

I cannot wait for someone who will save me.

Davide Rocco Colacrai

Christ with violin - dedicated to Baris Yazgi

[I am] the first day of school of a little man
who is ashamed to speak - Fabrizio Moro

I feel the wave watching over the meeting of my last heartbeats
with its blue variations
where there is no return,
my name that stretches out in pentagram
for those creatures that await the sky,
the horizon that borders on the void
before being nostalgia,
I feel the day that hasn't broken
and in which, suspended like a drop, I let myself be a dream.

I am a Christ who has a violin for his cross,
his strings my daily bread,
his voice my forgiveness,
light as shell pollen
I let myself be carried away where the starfish
are flowers that sing of love
and the world is a sketch that has stopped burning,
upside down in the shadowy canvas that sparkle
and muffled like the desire for a caress
that desire remains.

I feel my body liquid, without rigging,
and absolute,
almost a tear that slips on the fingerprints of the sea
while the sun paints its ray
with which he stabs me

and I find myself as a groom without a promise and without a dress

a misty albatross that stretches beyond the wave,
where memories are not yet born
and the eyes are silent, while the fingers predict an echo of my land.

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