They speak, who do not speak
hiding their face in a cage of sparrows.

Their medusa grin coiled in soft horror
watch the moment slip under a thousand faces;
lonely winter’s child at the tomb of Giovanni.

Quietly she sits at the end of the poem.


Counterpose at the third stroke of light,
a lonely moment’s figurine might disturb your fancy
with thoughts of salvation.

Fortissimo of decaying speech,
when the vision pales with a strand of golden hair
and light at the doorway blinds your soul.

Thrice-struck beauty on the face of Maria,
thrice quaked the angel’s wings of ruinous beauty
at this strange deafness of light.

Luciano with the breath of horror, calmly smiles
at the last door of solitude.

Ashiana, my love
my child of sand and light, at the tomb of Giovanni.

As the doors watch the autumnal soprano fall,
her piccolo-stained eyelids writhing in the choral fantasy
at that silent powerlessness of freedom.

My faith in you too makes me powerless,
with eyes closed at this ecstasy of pain,
I, at this moment, am unable to speak;
lonely winter’s child at the tomb of Giovanni.


The infant on his mother’s lap
writhes in fathomless ecstasy beyond the gaze
as the concerto splits the chapel door.

With her golden hair she sits near the window,
the softer her breath, the darker the decay of hour
and at the last death of the movement,
she is endless with the light.

Luciano stands naked at the foot of the staircase,
bathed with light, and all the women are frozen
in the calm shadow of laughter.

Ashiana with her fermata soul tries to speak
but dissolves in a cage of sparrows;
lonely winter’s child at the tomb of Giovanni.


Petunia voices
with the melody of a dream;
woman in speech-lit mist.

Light descends on water
like the golden curse of silent lilies.

Myth of fading stone
unspoken beneath the dazed mask of winter pain,
death by speechfall.

Time can be endless
like the quiet laughter of the last woman
at the edge of a cliff,
at nightfall.

Beauty at this hour of pain is almost magical,
swaying between light and fall,


Softly the infinite hunger of your voice
invades the blindness of decaying light;

counterposed spaces of the soul
that ebb at the edge of the stairway of light;
unknown face of your broken voice.

Fall dream
like the naked steps of her breath
in laughter;
the shadow of her pain
in moments faceless with solitude.

Fall gently
like the vanishing touch
of the moment of her voice, so unreal
that it leaves no trace of decaying rupture.

Do I lack faith
when speech defeats my senses?
Death of light, naked like my undying pain
this unreal disaster of spoken light.

Golden voice of light and laughter
in the soft miracle of a dream.

All through the darkness of the curse
you slept in tombs of speech
with flakes of sound scattered for burial
and I,
silent like seeds of time,
in your dreams of fall.

You shall rule my dream in the land of shadows
with this infinite silence of fall
and trees swaying in the horror of laughter.

Ashiana my love,
my child of sand and light,
at the tomb of Giovanni.

Miracle of dust


After light,
you are the only witness in strange rooms
unvisited by the shadow of laughter.

White soul of fallen voice
that slept in a miracle of dust,
quiet faith, subtractive…

child of dream; decay and murder.

Golden voice, golden hour of pain
softly dreaming


Softly the thunder in her voice
shakes the grains of beauty,
in the lonely grave of speech.

Ashiana, my love
with the faith of stone that stirs the hunger of lilies.

At sunset,
the nude dancers stare in horror at the mask of Giovanni.

No one cares to disturb the miracle of dust
under the magic feet of light…

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