Crisalide - Max Gazzè

Di questi lacerti antropici

Sgretolati irreparabili

Di queste scaglie non più corporee

Arricciate come coriandoli

Stracciati per dispetto

Per essere un calcolo un fluido

Un sistema perfetto

Incompleto e provvisorio

Resterà un sogno?

Un ricordo?

Di queste scorie di cellule umori e passioni

Dell’ansimare tra coscienza e istinto tra sublime e minuto?

Di questo odore di pane caldo

In questa notte d’estate cosi piena di stelle?

Di questo spasimo incontenibile chiamato amore?

Per l’ultimo umano esercizio del paragone

Per declinare il confronto di ciò che è stato

Comunque sia stato

Per vidimare il terrore dell’ignoto

Del non essere più e dover ancora diventare

Se questo ignoto stadio dell’essere

(se è)

Se questa forma di vita non informata

Sparisce con l’intuizione

Estranea e superiore

Della dialettica del cosmo

Del segreto del divenire

Quotidiano

Resterà il sogno?

Il mio ricordo?

Di queste scorie di cellule umori e passioni

Dell’ansimare tra coscienza e istinto tra sublime e minuto?

Di questo odore di pane caldo

In questa notte d’estate cosi piena di stelle?

Di questo spasimo incontenibile chiamato amore?

Solo chi non ha visto ci crede davvero

Perché chi c’era

Ancora si chiede se era

Colo chi non ha visto ci crede davvero

Perche chi c’era

Ancora si chiede se era

Of these anthropic fragments

Irreparable crumbling

Of these no longer corporeal scales

Curled like confetti

Torn out of spite

To be a calculation a fluid

A perfect system

Incomplete and provisional

Will it remain a dream?

A memory?

Of these waste cells, moods and passions

Of the panting between consciousness and instinct between the sublime and the minute?

Of this smell of warm bread

On this summer night so full of stars?

Of this overwhelming spasm called love?

For the last human exercise of the comparison

To decline the comparison of what has been

Whatever it was

To endorse the terror of the unknown

Of not being anymore and still having to become

If this unknown stage of being

(if it's)

If this form of life uninformed

It disappears with intuition

Foreign and superior

Of the dialectic of the cosmos

Of the secret of becoming

Daily

Will the dream remain?

My memory?

Of these waste cells, moods and passions

Of the panting between consciousness and instinct between the sublime and the minute?

Of this smell of warm bread

On this summer night so full of stars?

Of this overwhelming spasm called love?

Only those who have not seen really believe it

Because who was there

Still wonders if he was

Only those who have not seen really believe it

Because who was there

Still wonders if it was