Poems by Maria Miraglia (Italy)

Maria Miraglia (Italy)
 
Educationist, writer, poet and translator. She graduated in Foreign Languages and Literatures, got two Master’s degrees, an HLC from the Trinity College of Edinburgh and attended the Piccadilly School for English in London. For long an active member of Amnesty International, of the Human Rights’ Observatory, of Ican, she herself the founding member of World Foundation for Peace . She is the Literary Director of P. Neruda, honorary member of Nationes Unidas de las Letras, President of the Organization Mundial de los Trovatores,-Italy, Deputy president of the United World Movement for Children (UWMC). Author of several anthologies. Translared in many languages, she is recipient of several awards and recognitions.
 
 
WAITING
 
Everything remains still
timeless
I don’t hear the breath of the wind
among the leaves
the clouds up there
as painted
stay suspended in the sky
distant the memories
of the harmonious melodies
of the birds in the air
In the morning
the smell of the wet earth
the drops of dew
on the thousand flowers
scattered in the fields
Come from afar
sounds and noises
like of a band
of improvised musicians
the dust of fumes
darkening the air
the acrid smell of bombs
of dead bodies
meal of worms
And silent are Men
closed have their mouths
aware or not
of their guilty silences
without expressions their eyes
looking afar maybe
waiting for…….a Godot!
 
 
 
DAWN
 
Rapt by you Dawn
by your uncertain colours
shyly breaking the deep dark
of the nights
by the first bizarre twirls
of the birds in the light air
of the early morning
with you there
to awaken Men
to a new day
I could stay for hours
to admire you silently
while wondering about the mystery
of light and gloom
 
How many more sunrises
will I be a witness
before the unwanted call
of the Grim Reaper
invite me to go
naked and without burdens
but the hidden secrets
kept in my soul
 
I’ll then think back to life
to the world
to the early hours of the mornings
their rose-pink light
and still feel amazement
and a sense of melancholic nostalgia.
 
 
 
COLORFUL BUTTERFLIES
Words are magic
I love their sound
their meanings
fascinated I am
to see them
composed in expressions
read them and
dwell upon full points and comas
guess from the pauses
the reflections in the minds
of the people that once
penned them
through them grasp
the thought and emotions
because messengers they are
coming from obscure
unknown paths
conscious subconscious
from anything touching
men’s hearts
even just for a while
but that weave bonds
between you and me
among us
and then…. linger on intonations
that tell what words
fail to say
if visible they ‘d be
colorful butterflies.
 
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