Denise Milani In Nylons

FLY ME TO THE MOON *

Now the track is a dark expanse
except for the lights that are lost as the plane
salt
is to take off, leave me breathless,

me that every time the gap is forever ...

I looked in the dark without falling into cynicism, I have managed to maintain a sort of human integrity and naturally, my survival instinct was stronger, now I do not believe that hell can quantify, but I know what to say when I try to communicate and sometimes I wonder if the pictures that I put on film, do not transmit a fraction of the horror of those imprinted in my mind, I now know that innocent people do not look at you a second time.
I've been through something really terrible when I felt a moral obligation to respond, is there a rape that is not terrible to live or to see?
There is no difference between what your body and that of the heart, the external symptoms are not always obvious and present, but internal damage is rapid and most severe form.
It 'still hard to believe, you feel an animal and kindness not even find a vein in which pulse, you only think before they bite vice, the world is full of people with strange appetites, with a particular view of life or death, but nobody knows where he is going.
Maybe I have ambitions of justice now, but my eyes can still see, deception is an art that it consumes.
When I think back to the past, I can easily see life as an escape, all my efforts to communicate, to belong to something, all desperately trying to ransom, but delusions are our most valuable asset and the road leads to them is a lonesome road.

IN THE WIND

Only the black of night at high altitude,

my wings are made of metal,

my body loosens,

me forward in itself,

its thrill ...

E 'changed everything at breakneck speed, with an incredible violence and vitality.

I do not know if I was kidnapped at the beginning of time in front of a maze, but I know that some mornings I feel deep inside me a wave that defies control, which can not be overlooked.

He stands as the wind running over the fields, to try to climb into the clouds and then fall into tears and rain, but without anything that really reaches the ground.

Each fruit emerges from its bud, so the tear in his left eye, rain and dust cloud in its good in the pocket of the dead.

I look at old photos, but I do not know the way and I lock myself in a great thrill, an abundance of winter, before the ruins of a silence.

Only sparrows believe they give birth to the sun with their song and shrubs to grow full wings because you settle the finches.

Night is a fungus that grows inside me like a dark,

I feel skin and water, a destination field, a thread from a distance,

hand squeezes the cloth of her skirt,

nails refuse to come in the flesh,

but the pain does not sew ...

I'm cold, I still want to intact, living in ever and always, where ' soul suffers some guilt in a remote area of \u200b\u200bshade, where there is no boundary between terror and madness.

My voice is as thin as the memories of childhood dolls untrimmed; rest in their memory.

Maybe we need to grab her, hold her life, even under the shelter of despair or at the bottom of the world where you have dug the heart, where there's less light, from the shore as the purple twilight, but this is the my sky, my crumble, wane, it is immense and everything belongs to me.

Giulia

* The Voice