Not Chosen

MODERATA

It’s the nostalgia of finding yourself walking in Milan while your own steps draw your emotions on the road wet.

In the mountain of solitude, a gray cloud communicates me that are in someone’s hand.

And he leads me by the hand where existences tear.

Each verse of my poems are next to each other untouched.

untouched. And the world is lost.

With the falling drops I do not mark the time, I am just away from life.

And I amalgamated in the dramatic sound of emotions.

It rains on the void and the cry becomes matter, it breaks the silence.

Voices sway.

Here is the meeting, between the asphalt and its liquid footsteps drawn and which confirm the man alone,

in the existential metropolis of noise. Debole.

Here is the fear, of a wood that is silent suspended, amazed by the water that deceives, a generator of mold that obstructs the fire. Forte.

Here is the dance in the dark, among the clouds of the solo song who wants to embrace an eternal flesh. We are lovers immersed in the drama of the other’s salty tears, e now united by the rain that mixes the smells to make them only one. Intensa

Pioggia.

Atmosphere d’emotion.