voice Martina Fields
floor Mario Sboarina
arrangements: Mario Sboarina
words granted to You who are
( a poem by Martha Fields, a music Mario Sboarina)
by the project: Hands and something else
( http://maniequalcosaltro.blogspot.com /)
The song was And of you who are (Martina and Mario Golf Sboarina) is protected by a license
and the words:
It was
I.
hand are on the edges and open spaces,
furrows in the barns.
Sono sonno untuoso e piano. Sono
ornamenti, affissioni, scoperte.
E poi nuvole che si muovono.
I rumori proteggono.
Agitazioni e percosse.
Corpi accampati,
ammaccati equilibristi al sole.
Ritagli di giornale, mappe
che s’incontrano a mezz’aria.
Ci si domanda cosa e come e quando.
Ci si domanda perché.
Il perché le maree, le inondazioni, gli sfaldamenti.
Le persone svengono sotto il sole,
o tra le mura spesse,
tight in the heat of the apartments.
Meat fluffy puffs of expectations,
summers. Some news when
not come.
steps are identified.
drowsy afternoons,
special magazine, browse
architectural dream.
II.
In the gray light of morning,
vessels are all lined up side by side.
People walk on roof moss and there are children
faded
playing tennis against the wall.
The terraces are covered with ivy and other
aggressive and dense grass. The tables
tripped in the kitchen in the shade.
Something fills my throat to arrive.
The air carries off air,
lost on the sidewalk.
Being the morning air.
hand are on the edges and open spaces,
furrows in the barns.
Sono sonno untuoso e piano. Sono
ornamenti, affissioni, scoperte.
E poi nuvole che si muovono.
I rumori proteggono.
Agitazioni e percosse.
Corpi accampati,
ammaccati equilibristi al sole.
Ritagli di giornale, mappe
che s’incontrano a mezz’aria.
Ci si domanda cosa e come e quando.
Ci si domanda perché.
Il perché le maree, le inondazioni, gli sfaldamenti.
Le persone svengono sotto il sole,
o tra le mura spesse,
tight in the heat of the apartments.
Meat fluffy puffs of expectations,
summers. Some news when
not come.
steps are identified.
drowsy afternoons,
special magazine, browse
architectural dream.
II.
In the gray light of morning,
vessels are all lined up side by side.
People walk on roof moss and there are children
faded
playing tennis against the wall.
The terraces are covered with ivy and other
aggressive and dense grass. The tables
tripped in the kitchen in the shade.
Something fills my throat to arrive.
The air carries off air,
lost on the sidewalk.
Being the morning air.
Poetry And it was of Martina Fields is protected by a license
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