L'ultima Bruciatura - The Final Burn

La poesia 2 de 3...

L’ultima Bruciatura

Ci sono momenti, in cui può solo rimanere quiescente

Sotto il manto delle tenebre che mette a tacere la boscaglia.

In altri, il bocciolo arriva troppo presto per sbocciare

Spuntando frettolosamente per il pellegrinaggio solitario nel gelo della notte.

La sua voce è in attesa, gorgoglia come un ruscello che scorre tra rocce calcaree.

Una placida energia vitale che pulsa constantemente.

Anelando, scongela il ghiaccio che le ferma le labbra

e rompe le catene della tempesta invernale, ora paladina della riforma.

2015 DNKG L’ultima Bruciatura

April Koehler Photography

Traduzione in Inglese

The Final Burn

There are times, that all she can do is lie dormant

‘neath the carpeted bleakness that silences the thicket.

And other times the bud come too early to bloom

Rising hastily for her lone sojourn across frozen night.

Her voice lies in wait gurgling like the brook under the deep shale;

 A placid life force, which beats steadily.

In her hunger, she thaws the ice engulfing her lips

Burning the shackles of her winter storm,

Now a champion of reform.

Community Comportment: Cogitating Global Disenchantment

What would our
Mothers say
if they could see
us now,
dancing and frolicking
in palaces for patricians,
where the
granite and stone
mirror its
icy hearth.

What would our
Mothers say
if they could see
us now,
indifferent
with sighted eyes
that bare witness
to the outstretched
arms and bodies,
sooted black
like the
cavernous vaults
that house
apathetic hearts.

What would our
Mothers say
if they could see
us now,
as a bountiful
earth teeming
with orchards, fruits
of the Divine
now transformed
to a wasteland
of oil riggers,
sky high risers, and
Flesh abandoned
on the shores.

What would our
Mother's say
if they could see
us now,
as people lie
slain in
streets, bazaars, fields,
from rockets,
or guns, or bombs
sustained on
egotistical
hatred.
Coordinates for peace
dissipating
in a world
divided by
"Unity".

What would our
Mothers say
if they could see
us now,
ravaging lands
to cache bootless
treasure
from the decrepit
and exhausted.
Automatons
with electric wires,
buzzing displays,
programmed to
HALT
thinking,
perceiving,
feeling.

What would our
Mothers say
if they could see
us now,
squandering
our lives
under sheaths of golden
brillance
While the streets scream
and avenues bleed,
We, a heartless
shapeless mould.

What would our
Mothers say
if they could see
us now,
picking sides
like children do
to answer a man's call;
rather than rising
with arms of love
beckoning, prostrate
for Divinity
to enter us all.

© 2014 DNKG Community Comportment: Cogitating Global Disenchantment