ATMOSPHERE D’EMOTION

"the earth was shapeless and empty, and darkness covered the abyss and the Spirit of God hovered over the waters." (Genesis 1, 1 - 10) In Hebrew, "wind" is translated as "Ruah", a word that well expresses the concept of Spirit, more properly creative spirit.But at the same time, Ruah can also mean "breath", "breath", "puff". It is a wind that blows on the lifeless. An act of Light towards the water. It is the spirit that hovers over the waters, the most creative and the most powerful. The smell of th e sea is illuminated by the lemon sun. Without this breath of light you couldn ’ t see the sea.

"God speaks to Job in the mid dle of the whirlwind" (Job 38, 1). And there was a great and strong wind, so that it rent the mountains and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. And after the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. And after the earthquake there was a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. (1 Kings 19:11 - 12) The noise of the rushing wind rests on its destructive violence towards the stones and towards the food of the fire. It is the wind of judgment, but the wind of absence, of non - presence, of a chaos that makes one read only what is necessary.

«Moses stretched out his hand over the sea, and the Lord drove the sea by a strong east wind all night and turned the sea dry. And the sea was divided.» (Exodus 14, 21) The Exodus narrative provides another powerful example of a mighty wind as God's instrument of deliverance. When the Israelites were trapped between Pharaoh's army and the Red Sea, "the Lord drove back the sea by a strong east wind all night and made the s ea dry" (Exodus 14:21). In this case, the mighty wind becomes an instrument of divine intervention, demonstrating God's power over nature and His commitment to saving His people. It is the powerful smell of escape and at the same time the energetic smell of the pursuer, the smell of liberation

After the fire, a still, gentle breeze ” (1 Kings 19:11 - 12). It is the Whisper, a thread of sonorous silence.It is the breath of a grace, of a message of presence that accompanies, that leads. It is a smell of the new that invites us to travel the path of a forgotten beauty, a reminder of the simple joy of life's journey. A constant sound, a certain presence, even when we think we are alone. It is the commitment of every man to return and cover his face with the unexpected that speaks, just as the prophet Elijah did. Without noise, in secret.

Extension of a branch fallen between the wet moss and furrowed by our uncertain steps among the trees who move the cathedral of mystery, without horizon. The measure of things is missing, the breath of everyday life is missing, in the dark green frozen by the thin clouds that reshape the shapes with a humid pride.

Where iron and stone along the river soaked oxygen. And nothingness becomes dusty being, attempting a journey into the impossible and clinging to a rusty and wet support. Bring your hand closer, close your eyes and listen in the silence that surrounds you…

In the invisible sea where we wander, mixing instant fear and convulsive pleasure, between saline repulsion and voluptuousness, shifting the boundary of one's self that fluctuates and never stops. Suffocated by a dull and distant sound that deforms and suffers, enjoys, dies and lives again, always remaining a little high and suspended.

DEBOLEHave you ever tried to smell wet wood for the chimney? In the mountain of solitude, a gray cloud communicates me that are in someone’s hand.And he leads me by the hand where existences tear.Each verse of my poems are next to each other untouched.untouched. And the world is lost.With the falling drops I do not mark the time, I am just away from life.And I amalgamated in the dramatic sound of emotions.It rains on the void and the cry becomes matter, it breaks the silence.Voices sway. Here is the meeting, between the asphalt and its liquid footsteps drawn and which confirm the man alone,in the existential metropolis of noise. Debole. Here is the fear, of a wood that is silent suspended, amazed by the water that deceives, a generator of mold that obstructs the fire. Forte. Here is the dance in the dark, among the clouds of the solo song who wants to embrace an eternal flesh. We are lovers immersed in the drama of the other’s salty tears, e now united by the rain that mixes the smells to make them only one. Intensa Pioggia. Atmosphere d’emotion.

MODERATA It’s the nostalgia of finding yourself walking in Milan while your own steps draw your emotions on the road wet. In the mountain of solitude, a gray cloud communicates me that are in someone’s hand.And he leads me by the hand where existences tear.Each verse of my poems are next to each other untouched.untouched. And the world is lost.With the falling drops I do not mark the time, I am just away from life.And I amalgamated in the dramatic sound of emotions.It rains on the void and the cry becomes matter, it breaks the silence.Voices sway. Here is the meeting, between the asphalt and its liquid footsteps drawn and which confirm the man alone,in the existential metropolis of noise. Debole. Here is the fear, of a wood that is silent suspended, amazed by the water that deceives, a generator of mold that obstructs the fire. Forte. Here is the dance in the dark, among the clouds of the solo song who wants to embrace an eternal flesh. We are lovers immersed in the drama of the other’s salty tears, e now united by the rain that mixes the smells to make them only one. Intensa Pioggia. Atmosphere d’emotion.

FORTETwo bodies united in the memory of a sudden heavy shower. Two desires that embrace through the water. In the mountain of solitude, a gray cloud communicates me that are in someone’s hand.And he leads me by the hand where existences tear.Each verse of my poems are next to each other untouched.untouched. And the world is lost.With the falling drops I do not mark the time, I am just away from life.And I amalgamated in the dramatic sound of emotions.It rains on the void and the cry becomes matter, it breaks the silence.Voices sway. Here is the meeting, between the asphalt and its liquid footsteps drawn and which confirm the man alone,in the existential metropolis of noise. Debole. Here is the fear, of a wood that is silent suspended, amazed by the water that deceives, a generator of mold that obstructs the fire. Forte. Here is the dance in the dark, among the clouds of the solo song who wants to embrace an eternal flesh. We are lovers immersed in the drama of the other’s salty tears, e now united by the rain that mixes the smells to make them only one. Intensa Pioggia. Atmosphere d’emotion.