POÉTES!...VOS PAPIERS!...TO YOU...PRINCESS SOPHIA!

LOVE IS THE MASTER

Love is the One who masters all things;
I am mastered totally by Love.
By my passion of love for Love
I have ground sweet as sugar.
O furious Wind, I am only a straw before you;
How could I know where I will be blown next?
Whoever claims to have made a pact with Destiny
Reveals himself a liar and a fool;
What is any of us but a straw in a storm?
How could anyone make a pact with a hurricane?
God is working everywhere his massive Resurrection;
How can we pretend to act on our own?
In the hand of Love I am like a cat in a sack;
Sometimes Love hoists me into the air,
Sometimes Love flings me into the air,
Love swings me round and round His head;
I have no peace, in this world or any other.
The lovers of God have fallen in a furious river;
They have surrendered themselves to Love's commands.
Like mill wheels they turn, day and night, day and night,
Constantly turning and turning, and crying out.

THE COLOR OF POMEGRANATES...death of a poet...to you...Narineh Yeghiazaryan...Yerevan - Armênia

Oosti Koo Gas
Sayat Nova

Oosti koo gas, gharib blbool,
Doo mi lats’ li, yis im laloo.
Doo vart ptre, yis gozalin.
Doo mi lats’ li, yis im laloo.

Whence are you coming, wandering nightingale?
You are crying, I will also cry.
You seek the rose, and I the beautiful one.
You are crying, I will also cry.

Ari blbool, khosi baren.
Okhnevi koo ekats’ saren.
Ki vartn erits’, indz im yaren.
Doo mi lats’ li, yis im laloo.

Come nightingale, tell me the word.
The mountain from which you came is blessed.
The rose burns you, my love burns me.
You are crying, I will also cry.

Man im gali didari hit,
Voonts’ gharib blbool khari hit.
Doo varti, yis yari hit.
Doo mi lats’ li, yis im laloo.

I am wandering with the picture,
Like the wandering nightingale with the insect.
You are with the rose, and I with my love.
You are crying, I will also cry.

Salbooi nman kananch im,
Ek, khosi, dzaynet chananch im,
Doo vart kanche, yis yar kanchim.
Doo mi lats’ li, yis im laloo.

I am green like the cypress,
Come, speak, I know your voice.
You call to the rose, I call to the beloved.
You are crying, I will also cry.

Gharib blbool, dzaynet maloom,
Yis oo doo ervink me haloom,
Sayat Noven asats’ zaloom,
Doo mi lats’ li, yis im laloo.

Wandering nightingale, your voice is miserable,
You and I are burning in the same way,
Sayat Nova said cruelly,
You are crying, I will also cry.

...to you my beautiful friend!...I love Arménia!...

Cin' amorando...Kiss...Kiss me...please...to Marina Barnato...Milano!!!

Supplica a mia madre   E' difficile dire con parole di figlio ciò a cui nel cuore ben poco assomiglio.   Tu sei la sola al mondo che sa, del mio cuore, ciò che è stato sempre, prima d'ogni altro amore.   Per questo devo dirti ciò ch'è orrendo conoscere: è dentro la tua grazia che nasce la mia angoscia.   Sei insostituibile. Per questo è dannata alla solitudine la vita che mi hai data.   E non voglio esser solo. Ho un'infinita fame d'amore, dell'amore di corpi senza anima.   Perché l'anima è in te, sei tu, ma tu sei mia madre e il tuo amore è la mia schiavitù:   ho passato l'infanzia schiavo di questo senso alto, irrimediabile, di un impegno immenso.   Era l'unico modo per sentire la vita, l'unica tinta, l'unica forma: ora è finita.   Sopravviviamo: ed è la confusione di una vita rinata fuori dalla ragione.   Ti supplico, ah, ti supplico: non voler morire. Sono qui, solo, con te, in un futuro aprile…       Pier P. Pasolini