Pioggia Debole

PIOGGIA DEBOLE Have you ever smelled the scent of wet wood destined for the fireplace?

In the heart of mountain solitudes, a gray cloud gently guides me, making me feel in someone else's hands. It takes me to places where existences pour out their tears. Every poem I write turns into a step alongside the purity of nature. And the world fades away slowly. The falling drops do not mark the passage of time, they transport me far from daily life. I blend with the intense sound of emotions. The rain embraces the void, transforming silence into tangible matter. The voices falter.

In this encounter, between the asphalt and the liquid steps that are drawn on it, the existence of the solitary man in the metropolises overwhelmed by the existential chaos of noise is confirmed. Weakness. Here is the uncertainty, of the wood that remains mute and suspended, amazed by the water that deceives, promoter of mold that blocks the fire. Strength. It dances in the darkness, among the clouds of a solo song that aspires to unite two souls for eternity. We are lovers immersed in the drama of other people's tears, now united by the rain that blends the fragrances into a single fragrance. Intensity of the Rain. Atmospheres charged with emotions.