There is a Lambo like an extreme spirit.
If I start it, it’ll sound like a symphonic power.
The doors open with superiority
upwards and hopefully higher.
They look like a gate leading into an impasse
but, when they close, they fall like axes on the Ego.

For even here, sitting in it, charmed I’m not.
Gosh, what a drama.
It roars abnormally: O heaven, tremble!
And we, born true-blue mortals,
on our knees for the miracle.


Each difficulty is realism.
It doesn’t hide imaginary lotuses.

Realism could also be
τhe remotest cloudless day,
so laughable for dark memory,
a slavish memory, ready to praise
the least dose of joy.

And come certain cloudless days
that die out all at once,
forgetfulness seeming to be sufficient.
The rest are like philology.

But what is one to do with lotuses?
We exist. Above all we put up
not only with everything, but also nothing
which more or less falls to our share.

And on we go. But let’s not kid ourselves.
If on the way a whirling weather should occur
open to dangerous dreams
since mythical lotuses don’t come out
let us say the quick prayer

like a Lotus may the soul overtake
expectation, this obsession
to live painlessly.


“The hoi polloi are not always justified.
You want proof? Think of a Ferrari.
The fact that everybody wants to have one
means it is only for the few.”

A quick as lightning thought, the professor’s.
And yet bitingly he’ll end his speech:

“The hoi polloi, however, are always justified.”
Prey to a couple of commas
the meaning was op en to question.

Now anyone can quickly take
one road after another.


The rear lights are like boomerangs.
Designed to catch one’s breath.
Naturally, they have no other apparent significance.
No one else is in danger, only you.

Because if you happen to be at the wheel
for a start you’ll forget
that the other aspect is also lurking.

It’s enough that you let it rip
believing that everything is clear.

You see, anything different dazzles
but it doesn’t automatically lead anywhere.
There are a number of thorns on the road
for you to share a naked joy.
And you don’t have a more precise need.

This is how things are, were and will be again.
Usually sharp like the others.