Poetic justice

Inspiration is male, not female. A tormented demon, not a man.

And the martial and triumphant tone of my first posting, so reminiscent of the soviet national anthem's powerful opening C, shall now give way to the charged sentence openings so typical of Ernst Hemingway.

As some of my (by now) numberless accolytes have pointed out, my first post read like a declaration of war to the world, but was not necessarily followed by an appropriate sequel. The lion of the sea triumphantly emerged from the water, only to retreat in disorderly fashion, terrified at the sight of a penguin (or any other clumsy and perplexing animal that you prefer to imagine).

So, and despite all my initial good intentions, this post has been neglected for about a month.

Part of the reason is that I had selected an extremely topical subject for my second posting (details of which I shall not disclose).

However, as i started grappling with the complexities of the subject matter, it became quite clear that, had i stuck to the original topic I selected, my second posting would not conjure a vision of Leonardo elegantly committing the world to canvas with an effortless stroke of the brush, but would most likely bring to mind the image of a rather clumsy and chubby teenager trying to kill a fly, annoyingly intent on landing on his nose.

In other words, the subject I picked is one at which, i soon realised, i could do no more than take rather unprecise and ineffective jabs, running the risk, with every twist and turn, of punching my own face, or even worst, of loosing my balance and ending up with my face in the mud.

And so the agonising process of identifying a meaningful subject matter begun, over and over again, for more than four weeks. As explained in my first post, there is no subject about which I have no opinions that the world should be aware of, but, i shall take the liberty on this occasion, to beg for mercy and share with the readers of this post a few lines crafted in a style I have rarely used. And if poetic justice really exist, I hope that you will all be lenient, and condemn me to the dustbin of history, rather than committ me to the executioner, or even worst the local asylum.

At times the wind blows hard on our helpless bodies,

we're often forced like grass, to bend in a direction we don't like.

Great, wonderful and the same time terrible are our lives, always we can but follow turbulent waves and flows.

Like reckless ships,

the winds push us away from our best known shores and from the ports in sight,

towards new lands and ventures.

Dust shaken off we unleash our wings and raise towards new heights

follow the stars to end up melting in the sunset, tired of flying and eager to start living.

It's hard however leaving for the unknown when time runs out.

The sun starts burning hot, the sea suddenly is dark and evil.

The only consolation, unlike those men who left their homes and friends under a sky of war brightened by fear alone,

the fact that bridges will not fall.

Yes, but the fear that they'll grow old unused is greater.

And the wind blows and pushes us away,

forgets to leave us time to choose the words,

forgets to leave us time to say adieu, maybe goodbye.

good night,

Alessandro