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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.



© Davide Rocco Colacrai




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