It takes one glance
up to the sky
on a full‑moon night
to realise
that we mean nothing.
Yet in constellations far away
and in the tiniest snowy flakes
there is a harmony
we keep on crushing,
nurturers of entropy.
We’re only here for a while,
without even knowing why,
we should begin to unwind
this tangled clew of lunacy,
for you can’t buy eternity.
Categoria: space poetry
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Moonlit Meaninglessness
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Carina Travel Agency
Background Image: Carina Nebula image taken by HAWK-I camera on ESO’s Very Large Telescope
Credit: © ESO/T. Preibisch – Source
When my inward eye fancies
an escapist extravaganza,
I picture myself as a little alien
visiting a cosmic Ginza.
In my utilitarian spacecraft,
full throttle to a hypergiant star,
I drive and drive, so careless
of space and time afar.
I stop a while for a glance,
atop the highest Cosmic Cliffs,
gazing all around at the galaxy,
soaking in glowing sidereal whiffs.
I peep into the dark Keyhole,
but through the dust, all I see
is the grand Defiant Finger
mocking, making fun of me.
Tuned to my favourite Astro-Radio,
to Mystic Mountain, I head my ship.
I, of course, take pictures for content,
let down—never!—by a good old nebula trip. -
Chissà Se / Who Knows If
Italiano (English below):
Chissà se gli alieni
a marzo accendono,
i loro telescopi,
per spiare i narcisi,
che ondeggiano nel vento.
E se poi, ad aprile,
li riprendono in mano
per i fiori di ciliegio,
che danzano al suolo.
Non possono non notare
le macchie color rubino
dei papaveri in fiore,
baciati dal sole.
Foss'io un marziano,
proverei invidia.
Invece, guardiamo altrove
e seguiamo la cupidigia.
English:
Who knows if the aliens
in March turn on
their telescopes,
to spy on the daffodils,
tossing in the wind.
And then, in April,
pick them up again,
for the cherry blossoms,
dancing down to earth.
They surely can't miss
the ruby-colored spots
of blooming poppies,
kissed by the sun.
Were I a Martian,
I would feel envy.
Instead, we look elsewhere
and follow cupidity. -
Heartthrobs’ Coquette
The moon just hid,
she took offence,
it’s not my fault
you’re a superstar,
oops, satellite,
Lady Cliché,
my tongue just slipped,
très désolée.
Cheers to Astolfo,
is he still there?
Tell something riveting,
I want to know
how you were born
and how long ago.
Why don’t you show
your own dark side?
What do you hide?
Something obscene?
Wish I could see
ton côté interdit. -
The Forgotten One
Gazing out of the window
I see a moon almost full,
round, perfect and beautiful,
yet it exerts nothing poetical.
For centuries, she’s romanced
lovers, poets and prisoners,
there’s not a single word to add
about this object over-sung.
But we don’t talk about Pluto,
dispossessed of its title,
soaring in lonely isolation,
universe’s disinherited son.
I often think of you,
old enough to have been taught
you’re a planet, not a dwarf,
once you were not the underdog.
I hope that dancing with Charon
brings you solace in excommunication.
You’re of endurance a symbol,
the allure of the unknown.
The student sitting in the last row
might be the calm, smartest one,
not quite fitting into a role
tailored for just showing off. -
Cosmic Walker
On a carpet of stardust,
I walked there from Mars.
Someone told me that on Earth
they are constantly at war.
Everybody surely knows
it’s just a floating tiny stone,
so, what are they arguing for?
A hide-and-seek lover God?
Borders existing only on maps?
A sheer illusion of dominion
nullified by the time that flows?
A paragraph on history books?
It’s such a pity that they turned
a wonderland into an abattoir.
Indeed I have to tell the truth,
with heavy heart I hurried home
before getting fatally caught
in that nonsensical mosh.
I’ll just observe them from afar,
with my mighty telescope,
in the comfort of my rocks. -
Per Se Among Stars
Existentialists
on night shifts
in spaceships,
under neon light,
settling that Earth
is but a rubber ball,
and we are the sole architects
of our fate in the world.
Cosmic & Uneasy 