Even the stones and the branches | flung at him | they say | recoiled from | harming | Orpheus | so | beautiful was his | music || The | nightingales come | later | the | girl in the basement | or the tube, with a copy of | Alaide Foppa’s poems | in her bag || They think that you have detached yourself from me / simply because you were born. || The river | carries his | head | in its | pocket || His fate | is common | to be | torn apart | and scattered | into the keeping | of passing | strangers

Followers of the regime, who yet | secretly adore | the works of | banned and reviled | voices | The head | after death | still singing | One day, perhaps | the voice will | fall still | and, at that moment, the vanished will | vanish forever | the surface of the | pool will | grow immobile forever and | the stones and the branches will | drop | dead to the | ground || Down | many | different roads | words drift | for now | into the passing | beauty of strangers


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Advertisements