No one among the unborn forgives joy. Not even the death you keep to yourself exonerates you. They will want to burn you with pain. They will bury you in a silence of snow. You are all alone. Sing it to the scum. Entrust to the wind the track for those absent listening outside the circle. Every dawn is the coming of light to the light.
Nothing is more precious than a heart, nothing more rare. There is no music higher than its consecration. Every living body is obscene and a masterpiece. It has in itself the mud and the breath of creation, the light that makes you: survive.
Chiara De Luca, Il mondo è nato. Poesie in prosa e non e fotografie
Pp. 130, € 15
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