by Guido Monte
Translated by Silvia Dello Russo
© 2013 Guido Monte
(Swans - May 6, 2013)
we walk down the street, each of us in his own night, while the time is deleting me and you. it's useless crying when everything is heavy and serious... sbarbaro used to talk about the weight of the soul. a radio echoes from afar, then ceasing in the cold wind, dans le vent froid.
feeling the desire to rest in silence with no past and no future, only the nunc, the nunc of never-ending doze state, but things are never the same, comme se voir soi-même dans une dense obscurité
in the dream we abolish any times and distances, from the dream we do expect what the day can no longer give us; so we do hope that it's the extension of the intermediate state of bardo, and we should even live as in a dream's appearance, to get ready to the step through lives.
many of us have seen their own roots getting off little by little, and they have wondered whether one day they'll never have them back, they have wondered if they'll ever see each other, or if maybe we've never left et le temps n'existe pas
certain book's pages are the repetition of some aspects of your deepest life... they move me when i realize the communion in others' words through everyday gestures and glances, if been told in faraway places and times, par des créatures comme moi.
picture: filo rosso, by Guido Monte (2013).
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