La storia

 

La storia è soltanto 

i tuoi capelli intrecciati 

gli esagoni imperfetti 

 dell'epidermide 

le pietre aguzze 

sotto i nostri piedi 

il silenzio delle campane 

il Sabato Santo

As Mars sauntered through his door *

 

Dopo la pioggia

le facce specchio

dei passanti 

riflettono nuvole

di emozioni nude

come stracci inzuppati

sull'asfalto. 

(Non serve chiudere 

le finestre occhi

quando Marte varca

la nostra porta più sacra)

* "Mentre Marte varcava la sua porta" ("Goodbye Pisces", Tori Amos)

Per non perdermi

    

 Primavera di est gelido 

 e di tepore ad ovest 

 il mio viso sul vetro 

 cappuccio grigio 

 oltre la candela 

 mi aggrappo al sacro 

 per non perdermi.

 

 

Alban Eilir

Even if it is not my home

 

LISTEN TO - ASCOLTA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Even if it is not my home 

I live here and I’m not alone 

And while the time is going on 

it’s recklessness or may be love 

since I know this place 

and it is not a shame 

 

I know it seems sometimes so wrong 

or only a kind of sloth 

sometime it’s easy to gear to all 

in order to not to lose the soul 

and then you understand 

everything can have sense 

 

I hadn’t dreamt a life like 

this running into the winter breeze 

among the strangers but with the 

awareness of what I need 

 

Have I forgotten childhood for a reason? 

To try to think that I’m out of my prison? 

 

I’ve got still crusts over my knees 

and I’ve my hands soiled of peat 

the child inside already killed 

so many times but I still bleed 

 

Have I forgotten childhood for a reason 

To try to think that I’m out of my prison? 

 

Someone said that things always come 

in the right moment to herald 

that you can wait and do not dart 

the lesson isn’t yet in your heart 

I let the debris far 

here I can still build up 

 

I hadn’t dreamt a life like this 

running into the winter breeze 

among the strangers but with the 

awareness of what I need 

 

Have I forgotten childhood for a reason? 

To try to think that I’m out of my prison? 

 

I’ve got still crusts over my knees 

and I’ve my hands soiled of peat 

the child inside already killed 

so many times but I still bleed 

 

Have I forgotten childhood for a reason? 

To try to think that I’m out of my prison?

Ritagli

 

 La vita è un pomeriggio

 di maledetto inverno

 con i rami del frassino

 che ritagliano il cielo

 frammenti di bianco 

 e di azzurro serico 

 dalla finestra osservo

 sul mio corpo disteso

Linfa sangue

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Forse è il tempo

ad attendere le querce

dai rami abulici. 

 

La stagione stagna

se la linfa sangue

resta ctonia. 

 

In silenzio vedo 

le vite degli altri

vendersi a ore.

A new tradition

 

 LISTEN TO - ASCOLTA 

 

 

 

 

 

Let me become the Imbolc light 

into the dark of winter tide 

I can pray here on my knees in front of the candle 

I can say in days like these it’s like a cradle 

 

I want to start a new tradition 

Here in this place that is my mission 

I’ll light a candle over the wood of windowsill 

eight windows one for every feast of the Wheel 

 

I celebrate today, for a reason 

to esc from my everyday prison 

I reckon that I need somewhere to land 

 

Imbolc is something like a miracle 

we’re out of the winter and in the middle 

It’s an ambience that bestows a rest 

 

This is the only feast I have 

never forgotten to be aware 

Also into the worst storms I lit a candle 

To say to my sympathetic God I need a rescue 

 

I celebrate today, for a reason

to esc from my everyday prison 

I reckon that I need somewhere to land 

 

Imbolc is something like a miracle 

we’re out of the winter and in the middle 

It’s an ambience that bestows a rest 

 

Imbolc 2022