Gift, you say, gift
abandonment to serene ideas
nothing belongs to me
Gift, you think, gift
waiting for non-existent return
no one thanks the viburnum
Gift, you hope, gift
who plants dates does not eat dates
trees of life speak secular languages
you do you do then you leave
The true gift begins its prodigy
in the sea in which the ego drowns
Mauss Mauss Mauss
I do not surrender
to the horrendous capitalism
ism of isms
prisms of dark light
lies, disgust, fear
world nailed to the unglorified cross of a capitalism that from a means has become an end and has polluted every moment of time until it takes away eternity
Everything is for sale, everything is a product, there is nothing that does not have a price, here, capitalism without reins devours everything and makes everything liquid, terribly liquid and we drown in it, consumers or consumed, producers or products, but not art, art cannot, art must save itself because it can save us
Everything has a soul and I want to respect it, angels are not paid by the hour, souls have no class and mystery cannot have a price, that’s it, what I do with poetry and art I want to make a GIFT, a gift that starts from my motto POETRY EVERYWHERE and would like to create a great, or small, chain of gift, a stable island in the liquid sea of market logic, where truth, freedom and beauty can live and thrive, and the verses that save our lives or the art that brings the profound to the surface cannot have an economic value, one cannot demand a toll for the bridge that joins humans to the mystery
it is useless to criticise capitalism if Art then becomes a market, we must return to giving
The gift is a white rose
The rose opens, it does not ask, it offers itself
who knows if it suffers
White rose, white daughter of the albedo,
morning flower after the night of the soul –
Its petals are not enclosures,
they are open arms
generous creature,
so full of beauty that it does not know how to do anything but offer itself to everything
The gift is free, divine
rain that bathes the thorns and lilies
without gift no children are made
Only what dies in the gift rises in gold
It is written:
‘Freely you have received, freely give’ (Mt 10,8).
There is no love without gift
There is no art without gift
There is no God without gift
The rose does not speak, it sings
holy and silent, like an eternal thing
Offer yourself,
like the rose that opens every morning
without knowing if someone will look at it
here is true freedom
the white rose continues to bloom
on the hardest roadsides,
among the cares of silent saints,
on the graves of slain martyrs,
on the altars of lovers
One day it will all end:
the word, the war, the book, the throne
only what has been given as a gift will remain
The gift is the imprint of the eternal
spring after winter
The contemporary is paper mache over capitalism
The post-contemporary seeks the Beyond in the gift
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