Giuseppe Bonaccorso

(F. Nietzsche)

I hope you will enjoy it.

Explore the light and shadow of this poem on a journey steeped in suggestion. Discover the hidden charm. Start now!

Explore existence as that of an abandoned toy after interest has waned and discover its unexpected life and persistence in loneliness. Read the poem now!

This poem explores nostalgia, love, and loneliness in winter. Find out how the essence is preserved in the chill of this melancholy love poem in echoes of the line "Too late."

Words, silences, prayers: An elderly man reflects on life in this poem. Discover the secret of timeless wisdom!

The mother criticizes her son for being fat, while her partner finds him attractive, creating tension between them, but both know that the truth is a perpetual escape.

In an evocative, poetic landscape, mottled with pastel notes, a few schoolchildren in a circle spin the Earth as two intertwined hands plow through fertile soil.

Sometimes, the muse tarries, peering at me expressionlessly, then mysteriously disappearing in an aura of enchantment, leaving the bitter taste of fleeting inspiration imbued with melancholy.

In this short love poem, five sparrows fly over a rooftop where an antenna picks up the wail of angels while you perhaps still dance among the wilting confetti of an autumn field.

Discover how haiku and short poems can express images that stir memories and emotions, and learn how to write them efficiently.

Discover Fernando Sor, master virtuoso of the classical guitar, who left an indelible imprint on Romantic music through his compositions.

Abandoned footsteps, waiting for human hubbub, and the blue sky are interwoven into a poetic picture of stillness and beauty.

Australia

The mule track is sultry, Havana sand stint.

"She says she wants to live in Australia."

As she descends the stairs, (secretly) I take a picture: She's from the back. Loose hair forms a shadow in front of her.

"...the smile of a traveler. Behind the grating of a freight train..."

In this prison in the desert, The red-hot bars are already unraveled. Intangible and useless Are those boundless expanses, cloaking of sterile linoleum. The tracks you barely glimpse appear and go away without any (if there were someone), may ever imprint their gaze on it (nor even a fleeting twinkling of eyes on ephemeral glimmers).

Scripta volant. Verba manent. In this abbey of electro-hydraulic miners, only abulic automatons tirelessly copy the days that were ours from light to dusk. Just automatons, sterilized even before the burning Helios, Would initiate them into the irrepressible voluptuousness Of the evergreen pure forms.

...

"...don't turn back to the tracks. And let the shadow of your hair walk proudly, like a lone guide, Always before your uncertainty..."

...

In this land, freedom belongs only to those who hold hands on their interminable slavery.

Against the backdrop of destruction and despair, the poem describes a timeless and irredeemable atmosphere in which crumbling houses and wars draw a transcendent picture.