the way I feel

I found these great photos.

they perfectly express the way one feels some days.

when it is raining and you are traveling by train on your own.

to a dear person.

or back from a trip.

wondering about the future.

or having the blues.

The photos were taken by Adriano Zanni under the license Creative Commons

clouds, stars, rain and september

Memories of five sunny days home in a train back to my new home.

Ueber den Wolken
Muss die Freiheit wohl grenzenlos sein
Alle Aengste, alle Sorgen
Sagt man
Blieben darunter verborgen
Und dann
Würde was uns gross und wichtig erscheint
Plötzlich nichtig und klein


Poi, una notte di settembre
mi svegliai, il vento sulla
pelle, sul mio corpo il
chiarore delle stelle;
chissà dov’era casa mia
e quel bambino che
giocava in un cortile…

Io, vagabondo che son io,
vagabondo che non sono altro


Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
wake me up when September ends

...

here comes the rain again
falling from the stars
drenched in my pain again
becoming who we are

immagini

his breathe on my neck and that desire, that feeling which makes you feel alive. his warm voice. that day on the stairs, with the skirt blue and green.

and then him, with his thick fingers and those eyes. blue and deep. and his favorite pullover, which he wanted me to wear.

the rain falls down in Aachen today, and I go around with my flowers and my red coat. but my mind is not here. it is along the lake on November 1st, on a violet blanket. it is along a lake in Bavaria, enjoying the hug of his arms.

it is back to yesterday evening, with M. and her baby in the belly. with our peas soup and a feeling of fall approaching. the goodbye approaching.

Immer wenn es regnet
muss ich an dich denken...

and the 'man sieht sich im Leben immer zwei Mal' went lost with the wind. but you cannot change the flow of events. you made your choice. you both made your choice.

the memory of a massage.

rain

parents are left, thoughts are on.

first, you can love people but still t ochoose something different from what they expect from you. and it feels bad to disappoint them.

second I was this morning thinking about that room. incredible how much it represents for me. I can still remember the long hours staring at the white ceiling, or that armchair, or the carpet. and it is incredible how the lives of 4 people are melted into that one room. and that is such a common thing. a room means so much to you. and then someone else starts living there and that room gains a thousand other meanings. and keeping a room waiting for you feels nice, but wrong at the same time. because you do not know where you are ending up...

third. things change radically in ways you never expected before. it was just one year ago. and now is nothing. a mail from time to time. and a thousand billion miles, what will never be covered again.

fourth. hugs. i always loved people who really hug you. and you can dislike them, but still when they hug you you feel life is worth it because out there there are some 7 billion people like you, looking for a meaning, waking up every day.

Silence

be silent,
as I approach the bushes
I can't hear the human words you say,
but I hear newer words spoken
by droplets and leaves
remotely

listen
rain is dripping from broken cloud
rain on salty burned tamarisks
rain on sharp edged pines
rain on divine myrtles
on glowing blooming brooms,
on thick junipers red berried cones
rain on our sylvan faces
rain on our skyclad hands
on our thin clothes
on new thoughts blooming in our soul
on the radiant tale
that yesterday enchanted you
and today charmes me,
Hermione

can you hear?
rain drips on remote greens
with a burst varying in the air
according to foliage
thicker or thinner

listen,
respond to the weeping
the chant of cicadas
the austral cry can not frighten
nor does the ashy sky
the pine has one sound
and the myrtle another
and the juniper yet another
different instruments
under numberless fingers
and swallowed we are
in the sylvan spirit
living of arboreal life;
and your inebriate face
is soft with rain
as a leaf
o earthly creature
whose name is Hermione

listen, listen.
the chord of the aerial cicadas
fading slowly
covered by the crescendoed weeping
but a chant mixes
hoarser arising from there
from the humid far shadow
softer and dimmer
releases, extinguishes
only a note still shivers
fading away, rises, shivers,
fades away until
is heard no voice from the sea
now is heard on all the foliage
tickling
the purifying silver rain
the tickling varies
from foliage
thicker, thinner

listen,
the daughter of air
is mute,
but the daughter of silt
is far,
the frog
chants in the deeper shadows
who knows where,
who knows where
and rains on your eyelashes,
Hermione
rains on your black eyelashes
as you were crying
but of pleasure
not pale
but almost verdant
as though you emerged from bark
and the whole life is in us
fresh and fragrant
the heart in the chest
is like a whole peach
untouched
between the eyelids
the eyes
are like springs in the grass
are like green almonds

and we go from bush to bush
now joined, now alone
and the vigorous rough green
harshly wraps our ankles
and ties our knees
who knows where,
who knows where!
And rains on our skyclad hands
on our thin clothes
on new thoughts
blooming in our soul
on the radiant tale
that yesterday enchanted you
and today charms me,
Hermione

_________________________

Taci. Su le soglie
del bosco non odo
parole che dici
umane; ma odo
parole più nuove
che parlano gocciole e foglie
lontane.
Ascolta. Piove
dalle nuvole sparse.
Piove su le tamerici
salmastre ed arse,
piove sui pini
scagliosi ed irti,
piove sui mirti
divini,
su le ginestre fulgenti
di fiori accolti,
sui ginestri folti
di coccole aulenti,
piove sui nostri volti
silvani,
piove sulle nostre mani
ignude,
sui nostri vestimenti
leggieri,
su i freschi pensieri
che l'anima schiude
novella,
su la favola bella
che ieri
l'illuse, che oggi m'illude,
o Ermione
Odi? La pioggia cade
su la solitaria
verdura
con un crepitio che dura
e varia nell'aria
secondo le fronde
più rade, men rade.
Ascolta. Risponde
al pianto il canto
delle cicale
che il pianto australe
non impaura,
nè il ciel cinerino.
E il pino
ha un suono, e il mirto
altro suono, e il ginepro
altro ancora, stromenti
diversi
sotto innumerevoli dita.
E immersi
noi siam nello spirto
silvestre,
d'arborea vita viventi;
e il tuo volto ebro
è molle di pioggia
come un foglia,
e le tue chiome
auliscono come
le chiare ginestre,
o creatura terrestre
che hai nome
Ermione.
Ascolta, ascolta. L'accordo
delle aeree cicale
a poco a poco
più sordo
si fa sotto il pianto
che cresce;
ma un canto vi si mesce
più roco
che di laggiù sale,
dall'umida ombra remota.
più sordo e più fioco
s'allenta, si spegne.
Sola una nota
ancora trema, si spegne,
risorge, treme, si spegne.
Non s'ode voce del mare.
Or s'ode su tutta la fronda
crosciare
l'argentea pioggia
che monda,
il croscio che varia
secondo la fronda
più folta, men folta.
Ascolta.
La figlia dell'aria
è muta; ma la figlia
del limo lontane,
la rana,
canta nell'ombra più fonda,
chi sa dove, chi sa dove!
E piove su le tue ciglia,
Ermione.
Piove su le tue ciglia nere
sì che par tu pianga
ma di piacere; non bianca
ma quasi fatta virente,
par da scorza tu esca.
E tutta la vita è in noi fresca
aulente,
il cuor nel petto è come pesca
intatta,
tra le palpebre gli occhi
son come polle tra l'erbe,
i denti negli alveoli
son come mandorle acerbe.
E andiam di fratta in fratta,
or congiunti or disciolti
(e il verde vigor rude
ci allaccia i malleoli
c'intrica i ginocchi)
chi sa dove, chi sa dove!
E piove su i nostri volti
silvani,
piove sulle nostre mani
ignude,
sui nostri vestimenti
leggieri,
su i freschi pensieri
che l'anima schiude
novella,
su la favola bella
che ieri
m'illuse, che oggi t'illude,
o Ermione.

questions

Why had it to finish that way?

Why didn't 'it work?

How do I do that?

How would it have been?

I know, no use. But it's raining and I had to think of your smile.

the rain is falling down

The rain is falling down and it washes everything away, 
it cancels my own bones. 
The rain is falling down and everything falls down 
and I slip on dirty water. 
Yes, but what do you care, 
refresh yourself if you want 
my own dirty rain. 
Tell me what is good for 

standing far away in silence and look at 
our passion that dies in a corner and 
does not know about us, 
does not know about us, 
does not know about us.

 
The rain is falling down and everything is quiet:
you see, I feel the peace too. 
The rain is falling down, and this peace 
is just dirty water and live coal.
There is cold air all around us, 
hug me if you want 
my own dirty rain. 
Tell me what is good for 

standing far away in silence and look at 
our passion that dies in a corner.
And tell me what is good for 

hoping if it rains and one does not feel pain 
as my skin which is dying, 
that changes color, 
that changes its smell.

 
Tell me what is the meaning of

crying now,
crying against me, 
who I'm not able to defend my ugly skin 
so dirty, 
very dirty, 
how dirty is 
this dirty dirty rain.

 
Yes, but do not defend me now,
do not defend me now,
do not defend me, 
rather come back as mud, yes, but come back. 
Tell me what is good for 

standing far away in silence and look at 
our passion that does not die, 
but changes color. 
Let me hope 
that it rains and you feel as well the smell 
of this my skin, that is white 
and does not want the color, 
does not want the color, 
no... 
no... 

My skin is white paper for your story: 
write the end, 
I am ready. 
I do not want to stand on the door of our lives, 
see that it is over. 
Clouds which pass by and dump rain as stones 
and at each step we forget our steps, 
the way along which we walked together 
throwing our seed on stone. 

Warm drops of rain on the sand
killing us every night after the anger. 
Love, my love, 
this passion over as the hunger of a lion 
after it has devoured its prey and has left the bones to the vultures, 
you do not remember us, but we were the ones
embracing each other still in the rain 
while all the others ran away looking for shelter.
And our love is gunpowder, 
the thunder is only a heart beat 
and the light flashes without noise. 
And my skin is white paper for your story, 
but write the end: 
I am ready.

rainbows

Somewhere, over the rainbow, way up high.
There's a land that I heard of Once in a lullaby.
Somewhere, over the rainbow, skies are blue.
And the dreams that you dare to dream
Really do come true.
Someday I'll wish upon a star and wake up where the clouds are far Behind me.
Where troubles melt like lemon drops, Away above the chimney tops.
That's where you'll find me.
Somewhere, over the rainbow, bluebirds fly. Birds fly over the rainbow,
Why then - oh, why can't I?
If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow,
Why, oh, why can't I?

recipe for a rain day

It's raining. 
Unfortunately it's raining 
since this morning. 
He wants 
to grab my essence 
without appearing dishonest. 

It's raining. 
In these raindrops 
my doubts vanish away, 
I do not exist anymore. 
It's raining, 
but this is not the rain 
keeping me busy at night.

It's raining. 
Unfortunately it's raining 
since this morning. 

He wants 
to make a queen out of me. 
Am I worth it?

Hi!

One year ago. It was a Sunday afternoon. Inside me there was just a mess. I decided to go for a walk on my own. I dressed myself up, walked for a long time and then netered that cafè.

I sat down on my own. I ordered a tea and an espresso. And I took my book out. I don't remember which book was that. But I started enjoying it.

The waiter had red hair. He had a sweet smile. He asked me where I came from. We had some small talk. Small words. But they were important to me on that day.