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Poem

One would like to grasp what is eternal
in hearts, in May surprises
and in the crazy rambling.
One would like to heal the lost,
with scents of incense
and recommendations on the infinite and beyond.
One would like to run the eternal on the pages of Marx
and in the faces of the lost,
in the empty words of Foucalut
and in the salubrious practice
of medicines of the soul,
last refuge of repentant mad hatters
and greedy.
One would like to seek again the narrative of the vanquished
and win, as in the sweet advent
sated by rivers of vodka and industrious building
worlds populated with grateful ghosts.
One would like to grasp what is eternal,
but in the end what is more eternal than the single man
and of his wagers,
than his dreaming of infinity in the glances
disenchanted, in the white moons
and in one-night stands.
In the evenings with friends and in the crazy gestures
to snatch a smile and chase away the smell
of chrysanthemum,
a flower that Italians associate with death,
imagining it as a putrid and frightening skull
covering its head with flowers.
We would like to grasp what is eternal about
in waking up from the sleep of reason
and discover that today is cup game day.
We would like to, but of infinity there remains
only the eternal repetition

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