tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33581576968735004552024-03-29T08:10:32.332+01:00Lunario. Aforismi per un annoDRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152647555019312121noreply@blogger.comBlogger3741125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3358157696873500455.post-19974958735160782252024-03-29T08:10:00.000+01:002024-03-29T08:10:00.260+01:00Solo un sogno<p> </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Che la vita dell’uomo sia solo un sogno è già perso a molti, e anche con me si accompagna spesso questo sentimento. </p><p><b>JOHANN WOLFGANG GOETHE </b><br />I dolori del giovane Werther</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVl2KUYZrvRpdJ_0e8Jl6Fw_UtTz8c1LGE6lbXWvlE55r0Er1QiHjIGi9BytP1Fr53H1xzRtzPy8eMXR-voxMA_4PUExmkc5y_NtW9jGD-mCsxTodllRCeFnLkga8I_k2VopULOnKeA3qE2QbhHteCcJ6xOWd_1olJ4YncBWxjTB-4MlBd1vXlhEi-9-Y/s1080/Magritte%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVl2KUYZrvRpdJ_0e8Jl6Fw_UtTz8c1LGE6lbXWvlE55r0Er1QiHjIGi9BytP1Fr53H1xzRtzPy8eMXR-voxMA_4PUExmkc5y_NtW9jGD-mCsxTodllRCeFnLkga8I_k2VopULOnKeA3qE2QbhHteCcJ6xOWd_1olJ4YncBWxjTB-4MlBd1vXlhEi-9-Y/w461-h346/Magritte%202.jpg" width="461" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>DRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152647555019312121noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3358157696873500455.post-46063757532928675452024-03-28T08:10:00.001+01:002024-03-28T08:10:00.142+01:00In qualche modo i poeti<p> </p><p>In qualche modo i poeti si avvicinano al vero - non lo si può negare.</p><p><b>JOSEPH CONRAD </b><br />L’animo del guerriero</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigmz90WhPn4EwJiBVavELw99tUfFj3MgZAyIi62Bp1FEXbFTqynRTQbzfwj9p2V3sv2S8rhLchF9H_XeYQxKDPklGi_m8T0Vrp2ElxMSme8L9QlggJNCjSzN597fI4uUL8oBBLjqVrsOnlAaNuu8P9QELnQSwxs9lsLjIwSw0UThu86h37VzcrEeaUJlU/s2219/Magritte.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2219" data-original-width="1824" height="493" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigmz90WhPn4EwJiBVavELw99tUfFj3MgZAyIi62Bp1FEXbFTqynRTQbzfwj9p2V3sv2S8rhLchF9H_XeYQxKDPklGi_m8T0Vrp2ElxMSme8L9QlggJNCjSzN597fI4uUL8oBBLjqVrsOnlAaNuu8P9QELnQSwxs9lsLjIwSw0UThu86h37VzcrEeaUJlU/w405-h493/Magritte.jpg" width="405" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>DRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152647555019312121noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3358157696873500455.post-17295213239799888402024-03-27T08:10:00.000+01:002024-03-27T08:10:00.146+01:00Ciascuna stagione<p> </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Fate allora che ciascuna stagione racchiuda tutte le altre, e il presente abbracci il passato con il ricordo ed il futuro con l'attesa. </p><p><b>KHALIL GIBRAN </b><br />Il Profeta</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj65H432T7e8tgv3wt1bo4bbwesgrTNkuPbApjQ4K-gZJYHCM5V_5zx15-mTUrHKLcfKZp4LvkWIz11y4JllYEppqclYGOulebrq4udHm6kPJiLpM1it87n1vugFL_UT8XFhKzBm9RqD1Rz8dK6q2BRBOQtBCpwnwDCyyxaqsjz81pWWPcXmcsdK_SzLoE/s900/Stagioni.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="456" data-original-width="900" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj65H432T7e8tgv3wt1bo4bbwesgrTNkuPbApjQ4K-gZJYHCM5V_5zx15-mTUrHKLcfKZp4LvkWIz11y4JllYEppqclYGOulebrq4udHm6kPJiLpM1it87n1vugFL_UT8XFhKzBm9RqD1Rz8dK6q2BRBOQtBCpwnwDCyyxaqsjz81pWWPcXmcsdK_SzLoE/w483-h245/Stagioni.jpg" width="483" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>DRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152647555019312121noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3358157696873500455.post-84613050116525538512024-03-26T08:10:00.001+01:002024-03-26T08:10:00.139+01:00Un osservatore<p> </p><p>Basta semplicemente vivere e poi diventi automaticamente un osservatore.</p><p><b>ROBERT WALSER </b><br />Jakob von Gunten</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnEOKBCaf__u1kLaorpIuCQgEz2qgPKOd-1vPY7WVfdlHtl7f62K-N4AJJGtCpNkZgb_NeZn7cKVgKNZUc6UCOx6EYRPZOxz9UVGorh7JNJntZFnWK4Q8z9PCI6144drFahe0q7b1VSReCZ6D015ninBq-W-SrgJVO0hFiLbntrsxFaOuWYg-ts-dK/s800/Wanderer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="466" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnEOKBCaf__u1kLaorpIuCQgEz2qgPKOd-1vPY7WVfdlHtl7f62K-N4AJJGtCpNkZgb_NeZn7cKVgKNZUc6UCOx6EYRPZOxz9UVGorh7JNJntZFnWK4Q8z9PCI6144drFahe0q7b1VSReCZ6D015ninBq-W-SrgJVO0hFiLbntrsxFaOuWYg-ts-dK/w517-h300/Wanderer.jpg" width="517" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>DRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152647555019312121noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3358157696873500455.post-68235777990967992892024-03-25T08:10:00.003+01:002024-03-25T08:10:00.157+01:00Smalto<p> </p><p style="text-align: justify;">La nostalgia è una sorta di smalto che tiriamo sul passato per renderlo allettante e coprirne le ferite.</p><p><b>BRUNO MORCHIO </b><br />Voci nel silenzio</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis027k9loOOb4h5b8vx6TuA0Xd_I-mkleAlscrr5uu-hfnBRQGcbehVzJUy_1yXdzIAe9z6gg8n9Plju0EGxtIi8qD84CLIAADubZAWcK2w1He15r9zj508NF_LayiW-AkR913ZBQRzBNuta-mvK5lZF-cHsp1nSeyTZeBWr51ooRBrarToNIEFsVHF7E/s3000/Smalto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2008" data-original-width="3000" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis027k9loOOb4h5b8vx6TuA0Xd_I-mkleAlscrr5uu-hfnBRQGcbehVzJUy_1yXdzIAe9z6gg8n9Plju0EGxtIi8qD84CLIAADubZAWcK2w1He15r9zj508NF_LayiW-AkR913ZBQRzBNuta-mvK5lZF-cHsp1nSeyTZeBWr51ooRBrarToNIEFsVHF7E/w535-h358/Smalto.jpg" width="535" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>DRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152647555019312121noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3358157696873500455.post-25108511997007013092024-03-24T08:10:00.001+01:002024-03-24T08:10:00.217+01:00La conversazione<p> </p><p>La conversazione è un gioco di cerchi.</p><p><b>RALPH WALDO EMERSON </b><br />Saggi</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_DRNAlVRpb5vAr8a0Ww2hgZnk85OVJx-I8vsrX2gI89NhnMwFtE8G-7tYl74KmHi0YQL-HzvQYH51QzZctoBMAQeY9bKyuUaOtoZJBnBljaCvgZReCTwvFMy2Dd8FDB_fOl60DwJajXi6/s719/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="569" data-original-width="719" height="409" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_DRNAlVRpb5vAr8a0Ww2hgZnk85OVJx-I8vsrX2gI89NhnMwFtE8G-7tYl74KmHi0YQL-HzvQYH51QzZctoBMAQeY9bKyuUaOtoZJBnBljaCvgZReCTwvFMy2Dd8FDB_fOl60DwJajXi6/w518-h409/" width="518" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>DRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152647555019312121noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3358157696873500455.post-26017246446324560252024-03-23T08:10:00.003+01:002024-03-23T08:10:00.137+01:00Leggere una poesia<p> </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Leggere una poesia, in quanto il linguaggio della poesia è qualcosa di diverso dalla prosa, implica tradurla, cioè portarla nella nostra lingua abituale. </p><p><b>ANDERSON BRAGA HORTA </b><br />Signo</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNTgzS9RHOtDbNrVUSuaonOq8TdxCf_8WufMgsqmLecX2-EdjVzDs7tfMtc39rqlVQ0LROA1iruUO03jyHhXr6XNxEDDLd44gnq8lu-I3UVQ6XBR1GgV_aEYAz_Amnm8oenmKqoW-Zp1bwR7gR_frAooDdYAH9ct9U1Gp5n0OsrUt4i8WQPlN3rQOECdg/s800/Brossa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="552" height="527" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNTgzS9RHOtDbNrVUSuaonOq8TdxCf_8WufMgsqmLecX2-EdjVzDs7tfMtc39rqlVQ0LROA1iruUO03jyHhXr6XNxEDDLd44gnq8lu-I3UVQ6XBR1GgV_aEYAz_Amnm8oenmKqoW-Zp1bwR7gR_frAooDdYAH9ct9U1Gp5n0OsrUt4i8WQPlN3rQOECdg/w364-h527/Brossa.jpg" width="364" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>DRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152647555019312121noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3358157696873500455.post-28258774315485858082024-03-22T08:10:00.001+01:002024-03-22T08:10:00.183+01:00Lasciati guidare<p> </p><p>Lasciati guidare dalla tua gioia. </p><p><b>PAT SCHNEIDER </b><br />Come entra la luce</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCGF_jwFTj_m_M35uno8ATaAGmYITPkNTKljgB5P4Wxo-d63KRq6l81v63xbOFPTFY7ppkZcbwa2e8jVBFcpvk7EJ_752EMPZzHPSRUo4IifnILNRKCXRjhR8OKY9nhqL90lYjuZravhQ/s800/Zener.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCGF_jwFTj_m_M35uno8ATaAGmYITPkNTKljgB5P4Wxo-d63KRq6l81v63xbOFPTFY7ppkZcbwa2e8jVBFcpvk7EJ_752EMPZzHPSRUo4IifnILNRKCXRjhR8OKY9nhqL90lYjuZravhQ/w504-h378/Zener.jpg" width="504" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>DRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152647555019312121noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3358157696873500455.post-21080223118788239682024-03-21T08:10:00.001+01:002024-03-21T08:10:00.146+01:00Mattino di primavera<p> </p><p>Mi adagio nel mattino <br />di primavera. Sento <br />nascere in me scomposte <br />aurore. Io non so più <br />se muoio o pure nasco.</p><p><b>SANDRO PENNA </b><br />Poesie</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLVwCzjwBsvUgdpnmyBshibNHy-LooMrl3TUQPCJiC3vWQVi5NSX8uqE86txMmjSu3xEyYg_8tS-J44Zmb_yqlTvl6wTE5IkQkkBBPZpJ1PHomVtk5T89QmB3Uzine5s-zjYrG2jTljEOyBXHUC6kFjntpD8eZz6vJsaCkD8_HomT2RUVwrypiiT2u/s800/Malevic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="508" data-original-width="800" height="345" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLVwCzjwBsvUgdpnmyBshibNHy-LooMrl3TUQPCJiC3vWQVi5NSX8uqE86txMmjSu3xEyYg_8tS-J44Zmb_yqlTvl6wTE5IkQkkBBPZpJ1PHomVtk5T89QmB3Uzine5s-zjYrG2jTljEOyBXHUC6kFjntpD8eZz6vJsaCkD8_HomT2RUVwrypiiT2u/w544-h345/Malevic.jpg" width="544" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>DRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152647555019312121noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3358157696873500455.post-74998566406098348662024-03-20T08:10:00.005+01:002024-03-20T08:10:00.165+01:00La notte è sincera<p> </p><p style="text-align: justify;">La notte ti impedisce di vedere con chiarezza - e vi sono delle circostanze in cui la luce del sole può diventare odiosa quanto la falsità stessa. La notte è sincera. </p><p><b>JOSEPH CONRAD </b><br />Il racconto</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZX8WBTkAQarwPwS580eH2bxXi88UrS-p5DNeAL2gucEGQbgwldNiJkEvpKszyTi-ydWGcxQOfoCMY5HV98YLHQOv2Gf81oDKcLam5FuyDcdeC4mjuoo1e_7LE_4B0Tl2lTyxSjNA23Wc/s800/Notte.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="800" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZX8WBTkAQarwPwS580eH2bxXi88UrS-p5DNeAL2gucEGQbgwldNiJkEvpKszyTi-ydWGcxQOfoCMY5HV98YLHQOv2Gf81oDKcLam5FuyDcdeC4mjuoo1e_7LE_4B0Tl2lTyxSjNA23Wc/w503-h314/Notte.jpg" width="503" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>DRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152647555019312121noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3358157696873500455.post-90959087648106293772024-03-19T08:10:00.005+01:002024-03-19T08:10:00.143+01:00Padre vinto nel sonno<p> </p><p>Padre vinto nel sonno <br />oscuro e lontano, <br />il bambino ti sveglia con la mano <br />Ancora nato nel tuo sogno chiede <br />ricordo dell'età che ti correva <br />giovane agli occhi. </p><p><b>ALFONSO GATTO </b><br />Poesie</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh5xlHmaikedhN0qdI7zhY8dgbtMWBRM1MlBeU6mDSxdaEx8-FXM3NYjdGbp6Fekr6-kryE5acG-sbAj9MFCGjI9LLLkPOmlww4chdUy1b2SdtzEUN6UuBmJ1_lon2w5NId8dQvS3uJRKMXUJ5DHqlk0qR9uQVjj7NmQ2SwPszXKyvJ-BZMxVeqKWO/s800/Padre.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="345" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh5xlHmaikedhN0qdI7zhY8dgbtMWBRM1MlBeU6mDSxdaEx8-FXM3NYjdGbp6Fekr6-kryE5acG-sbAj9MFCGjI9LLLkPOmlww4chdUy1b2SdtzEUN6UuBmJ1_lon2w5NId8dQvS3uJRKMXUJ5DHqlk0qR9uQVjj7NmQ2SwPszXKyvJ-BZMxVeqKWO/w518-h345/Padre.jpg" width="518" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>DRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152647555019312121noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3358157696873500455.post-5302067351732862752024-03-18T08:10:00.001+01:002024-03-18T08:10:00.149+01:00Come gli enigmi<p> </p><p>Sappiamo tutto. Ci stiamo solo nascondendo,<br />proprio come gli enigmi.</p><p><b>ÁGNES NEMES NAGY </b><br />Fulmine a secco</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaP5eHm_3e1qLTGBEj-4_sSvMmNa65G8IAf-x5Xm6HshvbFwu5EWfuCI7hso20aKKC0pB18RHGO3aop-B4gZPkcE5MsRoh12zQ1TZi5ZFY9u3EyxIGn009587I2Ncmn_Nm_ks2H9dTiJLUrXLWW6dKiVhrhdKTdpfsXmT58ehXvysux8tKlbzSK1Za9x0/s1536/Dali.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1188" data-original-width="1536" height="350" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaP5eHm_3e1qLTGBEj-4_sSvMmNa65G8IAf-x5Xm6HshvbFwu5EWfuCI7hso20aKKC0pB18RHGO3aop-B4gZPkcE5MsRoh12zQ1TZi5ZFY9u3EyxIGn009587I2Ncmn_Nm_ks2H9dTiJLUrXLWW6dKiVhrhdKTdpfsXmT58ehXvysux8tKlbzSK1Za9x0/w451-h350/Dali.jpeg" width="451" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>DRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152647555019312121noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3358157696873500455.post-85758770225218510562024-03-17T08:10:00.000+01:002024-03-17T08:10:00.134+01:00Ogni parola<p> </p><p>Ogni parola chiama un'altra parola. <br />Ogni parola è una calamita verbale, <br />un polo di attrazione variabile <br />che inaugura sempre nuove costellazioni.</p><p><b>ROBERTO JUARROZ </b><br />Settima poesia verticale</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf7sleVMDPsxtCZ-8kY6LFSuZUor871WDG4LdGyRQHibd2K9bH2SgELB1142nism1y-oca4gQxfsoWcuFFZkVWKjOIaw0SfvJTDA3nLaRJqxGJ3WtHgPTcQcMBRzO7C3GOCsvyfKQ-LoSsxfRV5QxucXvsttq9pLnMXkAYaRrd-Gs1VPSlxpkoo-Xjlgo/s800/Brossa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="558" height="558" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf7sleVMDPsxtCZ-8kY6LFSuZUor871WDG4LdGyRQHibd2K9bH2SgELB1142nism1y-oca4gQxfsoWcuFFZkVWKjOIaw0SfvJTDA3nLaRJqxGJ3WtHgPTcQcMBRzO7C3GOCsvyfKQ-LoSsxfRV5QxucXvsttq9pLnMXkAYaRrd-Gs1VPSlxpkoo-Xjlgo/w389-h558/Brossa.jpg" width="389" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>DRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152647555019312121noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3358157696873500455.post-68959455594130092782024-03-16T08:10:00.001+01:002024-03-16T08:10:00.250+01:00Ogni perfezione<p> </p><p>L’amore al suo massimo grado dovrebbe essere l’origine di ogni perfezione.</p><p><b>JOSEPH CONRAD </b><br />L’animo del guerriero</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MMVwUCAiotg/VY0xYh1kDtI/AAAAAAAAX3s/DUTrPCkWlR0/s736/Jover3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="505" data-original-width="736" height="330" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MMVwUCAiotg/VY0xYh1kDtI/AAAAAAAAX3s/DUTrPCkWlR0/w481-h330/Jover3.jpg" width="481" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>DRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152647555019312121noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3358157696873500455.post-21721620106889707832024-03-15T08:10:00.001+01:002024-03-15T08:10:00.138+01:00Fedele alla notte<p> </p><p>Ma fedele il mio cuore <br />segreto rimane alla notte, <br />e a suo figlio, l’amore che crea. </p><p><b>NOVALIS </b><br />Inni alla notte </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeFUR_vMiSbls53TJzMxnKckpBZQlZ4RKKgS48BgDzLORAIx-IhZROpSIOov_zBhSsnY8HEbClkDi8tLcPCjIwA61oyKWOKFDiuTJbBCqrd62z0n84yxI9NZR9Zh0SddeTLMc4ZFy5ZnN1okI6Oc1HorgT_5sfpgjS-3RfYPTpJm5Z-d3k7DGeBkpxUII/s1600/Notte.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeFUR_vMiSbls53TJzMxnKckpBZQlZ4RKKgS48BgDzLORAIx-IhZROpSIOov_zBhSsnY8HEbClkDi8tLcPCjIwA61oyKWOKFDiuTJbBCqrd62z0n84yxI9NZR9Zh0SddeTLMc4ZFy5ZnN1okI6Oc1HorgT_5sfpgjS-3RfYPTpJm5Z-d3k7DGeBkpxUII/w522-h294/Notte.jpg" width="522" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>DRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152647555019312121noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3358157696873500455.post-56925048902882242202024-03-14T08:10:00.001+01:002024-03-14T08:10:00.150+01:00La sera è discreta<p> </p><p style="text-align: justify;">La sera è discreta. Non occhieggia sfacciata dalle finestre come il meriggio, cola dalle pareti simile ad acqua scura, solleva il soffitto nel nulla, immerge con delicatezza tutte le cose nella sua corrente silenziosa. </p><p><b>STEFAN ZWEIG </b><br />Storia di una caduta </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvGkiSYrhncfcQeZkj5pUu25um9dPeABsQz84zd0m8tb-F55ioGsvG9jdkxSoz9P_viZgvf9YsDWJ6zMih2eawgMDbS0WZeSiGaE_zl7Og6p_ykPPqg9iVdikCe8EJLpPjZMfkdEpeR_NO6YJuHeHqzea7BdkreZG1av_C3Q4PLaOd1LfyzXoTt2zNoiY/s1024/Sera.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="822" data-original-width="1024" height="402" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvGkiSYrhncfcQeZkj5pUu25um9dPeABsQz84zd0m8tb-F55ioGsvG9jdkxSoz9P_viZgvf9YsDWJ6zMih2eawgMDbS0WZeSiGaE_zl7Og6p_ykPPqg9iVdikCe8EJLpPjZMfkdEpeR_NO6YJuHeHqzea7BdkreZG1av_C3Q4PLaOd1LfyzXoTt2zNoiY/w501-h402/Sera.jpg" width="501" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>DRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152647555019312121noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3358157696873500455.post-32044566408595714232024-03-13T08:10:00.001+01:002024-03-13T08:10:00.257+01:00Una parentela<p> </p><p>L'uguaglianza degli istinti è una parentela tra gli uomini. </p><p>ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE <br />Graziella</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzFMOf-94Du74bCqTYraQojJ1dHdMI3D5VOTp8HmWRMf78vGscrqnhvxBDEIfFSBFoVxMqXgkypHvQvrLgFPT0BB_QUvjaJ7S8-Vui8K5TjckPomixQUfe3VeoDymyxfVfoj5nhyphenhyphenZWaH2wEC0uaNHxPyCootDq0O8V0Hk_9oSElqAF9XctKHAyIRIBO0g/s1280/Amici.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="362" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzFMOf-94Du74bCqTYraQojJ1dHdMI3D5VOTp8HmWRMf78vGscrqnhvxBDEIfFSBFoVxMqXgkypHvQvrLgFPT0BB_QUvjaJ7S8-Vui8K5TjckPomixQUfe3VeoDymyxfVfoj5nhyphenhyphenZWaH2wEC0uaNHxPyCootDq0O8V0Hk_9oSElqAF9XctKHAyIRIBO0g/w543-h362/Amici.jpg" width="543" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>DRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152647555019312121noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3358157696873500455.post-73541834487100731092024-03-12T08:10:00.001+01:002024-03-12T08:10:00.137+01:00Un contratto<p> </p><p>Tra la poesia che vive nel tuo cuore e il papavero c'è un contratto <br />scritto dal vento e firmato dalla distruzione.</p><p><b>HARRY MARTINSON </b><br />Le erbe nella Thule</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh28G2bfgYNmIc-FtMx27HFbRSrTEfU22y935qL_1ItxiDPZGzfpYCz-D8hoEeLAfFRzcKKk2S0Lx9UGNGddx_JucjTeqHaqtC4iser0-66OA-jZxNLM_KxTqJd0WrZrcUUuKcm4yJ5AETNrKFqNvhZkfpgb1FdUQBWa1TjG5iqixPzv1JkXWYlo1mV/s800/Papavero.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="498" data-original-width="800" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh28G2bfgYNmIc-FtMx27HFbRSrTEfU22y935qL_1ItxiDPZGzfpYCz-D8hoEeLAfFRzcKKk2S0Lx9UGNGddx_JucjTeqHaqtC4iser0-66OA-jZxNLM_KxTqJd0WrZrcUUuKcm4yJ5AETNrKFqNvhZkfpgb1FdUQBWa1TjG5iqixPzv1JkXWYlo1mV/w524-h326/Papavero.jpg" width="524" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>DRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152647555019312121noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3358157696873500455.post-39290393339186482172024-03-11T08:10:00.000+01:002024-03-11T08:10:00.136+01:00Tutto ciò che amo<p> </p><p>Tutto ciò che amo <br />è in te <br />e tu <br />In tutto ciò che amo.</p><p><b>CLARIBEL ALEGRÍA </b><br />Sopravvivo</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiot2m5U_cLeyF7_Cv1EPnnVWiBB5AbbDVUsV4VrvnTUfPIyvn91Ogrjp5zR1h5BpGrCq4FcMjQDRgyPbhlId0PyvKwR2R1wT1CM9PrPBJ-8KO70kvxqbZqkfGfOE1lPBFCnRN1gCOw-MPgKIz5CHh13PKK0Xb-3LEE_YsjD99ot-q_gg-_da_KowhOPx8/s1620/Mare.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1620" height="342" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiot2m5U_cLeyF7_Cv1EPnnVWiBB5AbbDVUsV4VrvnTUfPIyvn91Ogrjp5zR1h5BpGrCq4FcMjQDRgyPbhlId0PyvKwR2R1wT1CM9PrPBJ-8KO70kvxqbZqkfGfOE1lPBFCnRN1gCOw-MPgKIz5CHh13PKK0Xb-3LEE_YsjD99ot-q_gg-_da_KowhOPx8/w514-h342/Mare.jpg" width="514" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>DRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152647555019312121noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3358157696873500455.post-19206979372813141292024-03-10T08:10:00.001+01:002024-03-10T08:10:00.177+01:00Chi ti ama<p> </p><p>Chi ti ama c'è sempre, c'è prima di conoscerti, c'è prima di te.</p><p><b>MARGARET MAZZANTINI </b><br />Non ti muovere</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzLZm5rjYUBtJJrEaoF00Q60WPWMzHtIwpPyegGYZIlCB40hsEvxXARGBSqkwt3NpWrRCAeXhOsshc_6VpBw0SIG2SvzC51PDE1pQUlMSCfKTpn_6oGJrEfxgnkwV_nn67sAN749kQbOGhBwpdtf8pXQrvVX-pBHIK2IxuWQfoXLPISymF9oI4zBgK0_k/s1334/Lovers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1050" data-original-width="1334" height="393" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzLZm5rjYUBtJJrEaoF00Q60WPWMzHtIwpPyegGYZIlCB40hsEvxXARGBSqkwt3NpWrRCAeXhOsshc_6VpBw0SIG2SvzC51PDE1pQUlMSCfKTpn_6oGJrEfxgnkwV_nn67sAN749kQbOGhBwpdtf8pXQrvVX-pBHIK2IxuWQfoXLPISymF9oI4zBgK0_k/w499-h393/Lovers.jpg" width="499" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>DRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152647555019312121noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3358157696873500455.post-56765525613587422412024-03-09T08:10:00.001+01:002024-03-09T08:10:00.260+01:00Ci specchiamo<p> </p><p>In qualsiasi fiume ci specchiamo<br />vediamo noi stessi solo dopo aver voltato le spalle.</p><p><b>HENRIK NORDBRANDT </b><br />Il nostro amore è come Bisanzio</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW28IU90HFfwEw5lIF5Z74tgpBsxZikktybAKc9XMS2Bt1lfO_Ri10ljdOQJmjIMkoAmOzv8vSWMUoId6deV-oLRziuBglWsPIybSrqYQQHlwin7vP1w87OwAY1ntQZvvmm6FoVO8MmUMWAt7mW7a5UjubnOGN7TzRahHqZF5DxWPMT5mOgWKt8y_I454/s1416/Magritte.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1416" data-original-width="1149" height="485" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW28IU90HFfwEw5lIF5Z74tgpBsxZikktybAKc9XMS2Bt1lfO_Ri10ljdOQJmjIMkoAmOzv8vSWMUoId6deV-oLRziuBglWsPIybSrqYQQHlwin7vP1w87OwAY1ntQZvvmm6FoVO8MmUMWAt7mW7a5UjubnOGN7TzRahHqZF5DxWPMT5mOgWKt8y_I454/w394-h485/Magritte.jpg" width="394" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>DRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152647555019312121noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3358157696873500455.post-21660542869042878032024-03-08T08:10:00.005+01:002024-03-08T08:10:00.264+01:00Nonostante<p> </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Sanno bene le donne che esse spesso fioriscono nonostante i loro uomini, piuttosto che grazie ad essi.</p><p><b>ERICA JONG </b><br />Fanny</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihFtbybs7VX1EEqvIsikPJpMwLj6YFOC6f-uThKDfqfjYEITlTcdTKqB6ILgfqS0NMsy16AyeovPtgX_5XI0Uti7zWMNgMFAPniezYgN04YVHJbk3WLPEkGsc1nN0u9DQzYBpLsZFLXXrHSrHI3LIJf0uKveldpFmCoi0hygc-DfbNC1FiGesJCxqQ/s800/Mimosa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="534" height="553" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihFtbybs7VX1EEqvIsikPJpMwLj6YFOC6f-uThKDfqfjYEITlTcdTKqB6ILgfqS0NMsy16AyeovPtgX_5XI0Uti7zWMNgMFAPniezYgN04YVHJbk3WLPEkGsc1nN0u9DQzYBpLsZFLXXrHSrHI3LIJf0uKveldpFmCoi0hygc-DfbNC1FiGesJCxqQ/w370-h553/Mimosa.jpg" width="370" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>DRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152647555019312121noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3358157696873500455.post-50643811583310459622024-03-07T08:10:00.001+01:002024-03-07T08:10:00.259+01:00Saziare<p> </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Leggere non servì soltanto da risorsa conoscitiva, utile a esplorare, dal fondo del mio pozzo buio, il più che potessi del lontanissimo cielo: significò soprattutto mangiare, saziare una mia fame degli altri e delle loro vite veridiche o immaginarie: dunque fu, in qualche modo, una pratica cannibalesca. </p><p><b>GESUALDO BUFALINO </b><br />Cere perse</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAcOYAmrkRvauswckyOlnoPIDn5SNIJqIsTXvRaIBe1xM2x_ldXsRGNkiX0IflxjklevbDZqmSA2vah6940l_YRyASNFTY2yaXyXjdI9MzGUlZW_DIF0UYhf4ABpD3N_EdHB7oFpnNDL8rDmKXRMnm8zKiQ4WFNN5n5wgoYfY_2hacz-cD9JH9kAoa/s800/Israels.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="800" height="364" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAcOYAmrkRvauswckyOlnoPIDn5SNIJqIsTXvRaIBe1xM2x_ldXsRGNkiX0IflxjklevbDZqmSA2vah6940l_YRyASNFTY2yaXyXjdI9MzGUlZW_DIF0UYhf4ABpD3N_EdHB7oFpnNDL8rDmKXRMnm8zKiQ4WFNN5n5wgoYfY_2hacz-cD9JH9kAoa/w506-h364/Israels.jpg" width="506" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>DRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152647555019312121noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3358157696873500455.post-47492288096947646422024-03-06T08:10:00.002+01:002024-03-06T08:10:00.250+01:00Persone sfocate<p> </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Beh, spesso mi piace vedere le persone sfocate. Allora, quando tolgo gli occhiali, dico: Adesso mi riposo, sprofondo nel nulla. In altre parole, abbiamo la possibilità di rendere incorporeo ciò che è corporeo. Che è una delle cose che la poesia cerca di fare. </p><p><b>ANTÓN ARRUFAT </b><br /> Con 2 que se quieren, 16 febbraio 2011</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgltB0xwxNxg5zkV1IP_y2-EIGgRKldignhVfikQxb1JU5J22nMZ9TJb7lGqdu6WS2fG-7xGHpCB2SQMLNEDBMST1nNqzrIOBl8N5iqB1V23uNY-3FJJGeXXWsOUWyXMyzypdnh3Ppk2sJ72zZu37QKqqJkHw30ebE2lks0nuIbdh6tWMAUX0qK5E7J4QE/s2560/Sfocate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1707" data-original-width="2560" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgltB0xwxNxg5zkV1IP_y2-EIGgRKldignhVfikQxb1JU5J22nMZ9TJb7lGqdu6WS2fG-7xGHpCB2SQMLNEDBMST1nNqzrIOBl8N5iqB1V23uNY-3FJJGeXXWsOUWyXMyzypdnh3Ppk2sJ72zZu37QKqqJkHw30ebE2lks0nuIbdh6tWMAUX0qK5E7J4QE/w505-h336/Sfocate.jpg" width="505" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>DRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152647555019312121noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3358157696873500455.post-43707151943854265332024-03-05T08:10:00.000+01:002024-03-05T08:10:00.276+01:00Questo bivio<p> </p><p>Chiamiamo vita <br />questo bivio <br />tra la solitudine e l'universo. </p><p><b>ANA EMILIA LAHITTE </b><br />Gironsiglos</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh29gTxFPOo-rb3nLflv9SHFjOY3Jdfkm5_QriWPdNRfNva0Z4tbIIdO9ZYxP3kmJYl_izt9Gz9HyOOa-_dQydYycVqPNBQAgQPA-71WJnNXUKRB2o2YAqiuZ6E7PIg4pGulA-b958S9gFINqgXa7ZZTBFdp_m337q1RcRFK2RBrORri4TwdbLFmROm/s800/Bivio.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="454" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh29gTxFPOo-rb3nLflv9SHFjOY3Jdfkm5_QriWPdNRfNva0Z4tbIIdO9ZYxP3kmJYl_izt9Gz9HyOOa-_dQydYycVqPNBQAgQPA-71WJnNXUKRB2o2YAqiuZ6E7PIg4pGulA-b958S9gFINqgXa7ZZTBFdp_m337q1RcRFK2RBrORri4TwdbLFmROm/w454-h454/Bivio.jpg" width="454" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>DRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152647555019312121noreply@blogger.com