The sun`s white light floods

Morning
by Roberta Petraccaro
(March 2005)
The sun’s glaring light floods
The room already.
Its warmth the skin only touches,
But not the heart.
White linen cover
The motionless body.
Its soul resting peacefully
In sleep.
Rise from your temporary grave!
To enter the world
With the hopeful eyes
Of a newborn child
Unable,
Rise unlike the phoenix from the ashes!
Living the lie
Of an empty shell,
Denied joy as well as pain,
Like the undead.
Impossible
To fight against
The invisible enemy.
A war long lost.
Crushed
By a heavy weight on the chest;
The limp arms and legs seem
Deprived of their bones.
Exhausted
By the constant effort,
Refusing the gift of a fake spring,
I solely long
For a tender kiss
From Sleep’s brother.
Heartfelt
by Roberta Petraccaro
(May 2005)
My heart is not yet
Broken.
Its beat is strong and fast.
Excited like a child
It jumps up and down
Full of expectation;
Races against the wind.
Untameable
Like a force of nature
It hammers against my chest
Desirous to break through
To announce the message to the world.
The quiet heartbeat of hibernation
Has been replaced by a tumultuous drumming.
Life has returned
More prolific
Than ever.
A swarm of industrious bees
Besieges my head and stomach.
The sweet seducing scent
Of flowers and honey
Inebriates my senses.
My heart is not broken
Yet.
A distant, hardly audible voice
Tries to draw the heart’s attention
Whispering a warning
To be wary of the fragility of the moment;
Not to trust itself.
It is the voice of reason.
In its wisdom, it possesses the knowledge
Of unrequited feelings.
Its powers of imagination
Enable me to catch a glimpse
Of the future:
My wounded heart has left a puddle of blood at my feet –
A crimson mirror reflecting my foolishness.
But the heart is stubborn;
Despite all its qualities,
Reason is only an inferior adversary.
For you can feel the heart,
But you cannot feel reason.
My heart will soon be broken.
Why
by Roberta Petraccaro
(April 2005)
Why am I the way I am?
No answer to this question
Sad
Tormented
Scared –
No sense to ask this question.
So many reasons and yet none!
Like flowers are born in spring
Or snow that rests on trees in winter
It is the way it is
And I am the way I am –
No sense to ask questions.
Liquid Sand
by Roberta Petraccaro
(January 2005)
Lonely she has been sitting
In the old rocking chair
On the white veranda,
Sheltered from the heat of the sun.
The thick salty air is filled
With solitary silence broken
Only by the gentle murmuring of the sparkling sea
She is gazing at, half asleep.
Though she is young, her hair is snow-white.
Her clothes are of a pale grey
As if washed out by the saline water
She has never touched.
Never has she put her feet in the sea,
Or felt with her hands the coolness of the water.
Never has she stood up from her chair,
Or even been inside the house.
As long as she can remember,
She has always been sitting there,
For ever patiently,
Listening to time pass.
A dreamlike vision strikes her:
She sees herself standing on the beach.
She reaches for some hot dry sand,
And watches
The fine golden grains seep through her fingers –
Unable to hold them.
Cris muets
de Roberta Petraccaro
(écrit en 2001, révisé en février 2005)
Pourraient les cieux entendre les cris de mon cœur,
Sûrement sa souffrance leur ôterait l'ouïe de douleur.
Ma foi, les cieux semblent être sourds long temps déjà,
Parce qu'il y a une éternité que mon cœur crie, mais ils ne l'entendent pas.
Le ciel il est sourd, de cela j'en suis sûre ;
Aurait-il entendu mon âme déchirée et mourante,
Il aurait peut-être eu pitié d'elle et cessé cette torture.
Hélas pour moi, elle est toujours en vie, toujours souffrante.
Ce n'est pas un amour déçu qui m'a blessée,
Ne pas non plus une triste tragédie qui m'a tourbée.
C'est la vie !
C'est elle seulement qui me donne autant de soucis.