POETRY
The Winged Singer
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“If there were no imagination,” I thought, “there would be no poets. My words flow through the pen, fighting battles in the field of thought. Look into my eyes and tell me, am I a winged singer, a poetic angel bringing balm as a gift for wounded hearts?”
If I were a poet, I would ignite the flame of love, for sad is the fading of nature. I would write a tapestry of words, in the whisper of voices. Thoughts turn and twist, shaping the blossoming of the mind. It is the frenzy of dreams that stirs in the chest.
The soul lights up and the piano plays the triumph of the immense, of love over hate, and nature celebrates nameless joy. Small kindnesses and vibrant tendernesses whisper the tale of expressive souls, intertwined by destinies and hopes. A ritual of losing oneself to find oneself in an embrace of poetry.
The extension of my thought stirs questions, but with a vivid conscience, I ponder the meaning of art. Art speaks to the soul and the mind, rests, entertains, questions. Art is life, voice, gesture, sound, aesthetics. Life itself is a stage rich in nuances, a perfect illusion is a breath from the heartbeat of a dream, which deeply desires equity, justice, honesty, truth.
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(Self-translation from Italian)
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