Written by Ivan Pozzoni

 

My little love, solid, you, today, fell

and i was not there to support you, with my aggressive biceps

of a barbarian from the northern forests, my face painted blue,

lying in the spasmodic berserksgangr of drinking from the skulls of the vanquished,

it all begins with a trembling, chattering of teeth and a feeling of cold, 

immense rage and a desire to assault the enemy.

 

My little love, fragile, you, today, fell,

and there is a tavern behind our house, all brianzola, your new world, 

there is a tavern that serves a hundred and a hundred types of risotto 

to spread on your wounds and on your skinned knees,

where i, imperative man, can still interpret every amber darkness

in your wise child’s eyes, manipulating the kaleidoscope of your irises,

voluntarily uncovering my flank to the dagger of your arctic lucidity.

 

If not a tavern, our love, resembles us: we eat and live, 

remunerating each other, victories and defeats, hôtellerie, we bustle and eat,

until the innkeeper Godan, the god of stubborn ‘poets’, slams a mug of mead on the table

invite us to dance at Walhalla, Mocambo a contrario, dance far away, to the end of the worlds,

you will return to the simple freshness of your sea, you wandering caetan siren of sand, 

and to me the fog-damp earth of the valley without ascents or descents will not weigh on my zinc.

 

In the ancient taverns of solid love continue to mix fog and sea-water,

outside thunderstorms, lightning and thunder, liquefied by the cloudburst everything is drying out,  

and we, we eat and live, we bustle and eat, sheltered, in our reserve of happiness,

aware that, hovering in the air, in the long run,

the misty ice crystals will flow into the sea.

 

Text © Ivan Pozzoni

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