Dark Grace
Was it a dream? All my roads were broken,
and I, being alone, of what to think? I distune
my thoughts; am I one in the ash of molten,
out of the world, abolished dreams, buffoon?
The Mistral blows, (my soul) , to my direction,
it's a world stuck (welded) , this strange year,
in a deep dream, I foresaw, my suspension,
and I was again a buffoon protector of my tear.
My vain efforts may become a threaded toy,
of your wind, a song benign in your tale,
thrown unerringly by ghosts, foolish decoy..
And I, windy tall, here I 'll be, in this wail.
So, be in Mist! A cold drift will be your next,
upon a sculptured bark, vision of lone beauty..
Was I handsome in your eyes and my text
a dropping dropp of lifeless Ocean, and a treaty?
My soul trembles (I said) cause I see an empty,
vulgar destiny where your beauty passed,
alone in a dim cloud of years, a crowned pity,
and I was a tear in a world of foolish caste.
Of Angels was this masquerade, broken wings,
(as I said) , with my buffoon's colored face
A Mistral wind, and I, a puppet, without strings
after aphotic eyes stared in me, in dismal grace.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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