Hate is masked, love is all but naked

Hate is left standing, love reclines over the earth. Cloistered in a soap bubble, two lovers invert the order in the importance of things. They stop the crowd, prohibiting its entry, protected by the most fortified of shields. Hate scurries, love suspends – then freezes the surrounding air and renders life absolute, a lustrous harmonious softness on steely pavement. Hate is masked, love is all but naked, its unveiled face translucent as the chaos. Hate blurred, love in focus: the former turning its back, it doesn’t see. Two parallel worlds deprived of magic transporting doors. Rejecting one another like opposing magnets, clothed in contrasting colors and fabric. Hate seduces, the lovers disarm. Their kiss is a stone thrown afar, it strikes powerfully, it aches inside with no trace of contusion or fracture. An action which should have never happened, when it happens it defeats the mightiest. The lovers fabricate the encircling emptiness, blessed by gods in love. They abandon the others who envelop in the crowd and fill the space of those wild bodies caged by ultra thin threads of hate and madness which fetter them. The lovers narrate the profound sense of our journey and its pauses, outstretched on the ground atop the bed of the world to commiserate the absurdity of humans in flight and acquire all the sky’s mercy.   Torto  (Translate by Brian Farrar)

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Versi e visioni di rivolta metropolitana
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