Sul mare... da una vita

 "1981"

From the Monologue - That light in the eyes "

Of

Vincenzo Calafiore

 

The night before, not far from dusk, he announced a storm in the night, the sky was frayed, tangled, he reconciled with reflection, with writing.

In the room now in the dark, on the old ink-stained table the soft light of a candle magnified the profiles, it was that room

the - magical place -, the fountain pen runs with the lightness of a feather on the paper as if it knew its own metrics and commas, suspension points, questions, its own intimate narration of a thought that gradually takes shape.

Everything has its time! , even my slow breathing as if to respect the magic they leave in the air.

These are words that, knowing the movement of slowness thus move, have the same movement of the eyes when they meet other eyes, the same softness of lips just touched, just kissed.

This thought of her is the most sacred moment!

In the slow passing of the hours it seems that time had run aground on the edges of a magical dream that ran on those silver threads of words hanging, like Andean prayers.

It was like staying in a suspension from which you could reach out into the distance, caress a face, touch your lips, whisper words, take other hands; but also to go in search of a half-finished dream, caught in the spider's web of a dream catcher.

My dream was there!

A dream is not a bargaining chip, in that dream there was all the meaning of my existence, the dignity, love without the limitation and dullness of borders and barriers, the awareness of another existence, an elsewhere to to go, stripped of the miserable human condition.

This is why Love is a dream, existence, pride, dignity!

This is why one cannot barter a dream, or dirty it freely as happens with both hands of this hypocritical humanity as much as its being.

But everything has an end, everything ends, the dream fades slowly, as the light invades the room, the shadows flee with the same familiarity of a farewell, everything mixes in the air I breathe, sour and bloody like a last kiss.

That's if she knew, or could know how deeply rooted she had been in my soul, if she wouldn't have gone away ... like a last sip of a glass of wine drunk slowly.

This love that has drunk me with happiness, intimate and precious has now gone away without leaving traces of itself, vanished together with the shadows, in the bottoms of a bitter wine in a glass.

Ah…! That light in the eyes that I could hardly look at, strong as the dawn, as enchanting as the light on the sea.

“To meet” is the missing verb in this humanity… to meet, to seek, to love each other!