Massimiliano Badiali



Leave me to the habitual sounds

With this pen

That more than the thought escapes me fast 

And that presses on light sheets

Fleeting drawings and incomprehensible thoughts.


I leave to others palettes

Paintbrushes and effects’ blazes

And ceruse.

I have for me

Defibrated clothes,

Consumed pencils

And worn chalks.


Only a light syllable

I desire

In the dusty cone of light

Which illuminates my heart and my mind




There is no more throb

In these verses

Nor some hypothesis of enchantment.

I leave notes running

In the pentagram of the fate

On melted puffs without certitudes

Where the full stop insinuates

To conclude the phrase.


Only the faint and trembling

Light of the word


In the synagogue

Of the thoughts

Between the verses’ nails.