Carlo Boasso lives in Cagliari where he was born in 1970. He published by the publisher of Longo Ravenna volumes of poetry: "A book" (1989), "Autovia" (1990), entambi chosen among the finalists for the Prize "Giuseppe Dessì. He also published at the editor Astra collection "eyes."
1
This white paper is
this night, the sea without its root
green wave of the abyss, the sea
pure color night
driven by dark blood aross
of my imagination.
My poetry is dry the thirsty
ink for the pen
oblivion wing dip,
my heart, that love
loves does not love and if love does not love.
Nude sleeping eyes to the sun
are without eyelids
of the human skull,
my verses.
2
Even this is life, flowers
looking at us straight in the eye by the way, when night
around is black, moon, stars, the hour that
closes, live, in the heart,
that you must live like the weather.
3
There is more green in their sleep in that
continued
pure essence of loneliness
that we are in existence.
There is more to life sleeping
bliss.
Yet, when the ultimate fantasy for
dismisses the existence s'oblia,
absent from his time in the moment
insomnia and loneliness I feel
dishonored within my sleep more than in
wake of boredom and pain.
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