Caravaggio: Malta, Syracuse, Messina, Naples, Porto Ercole, July 18th, 1610.
Four years on the Sun, so many laberls on the luggage and hardly a friendly face.
Always on the move, running int the poisonous bloue sea, running under the July sun. Adrift.
Salt water drips from my fingers, leaving a trail of tiny tears in the burning sand
The fishermen carry me hight on their shoulders. I can hear you sobbing, Jerusaleme.
Rough hands warm my dying body, snatched from the cold blue sea.
Oggetto d’arte!
E io sono molto caro.
They’re rowing me back to the village, Their breath warm on my blue lips.
Man’s character is his fate
I’m dying in time to the plash of their oars. If arms as steady as these had embraced me in life...
To think, Jerusaleme, our friendship should end in this room, this cold white room so far from home.
The rat played out his life on the cogs of the great wooden clock quite carelessly
Is horrible perverted and place high on the altars of Rome in mockery
My shadow passes.
The flies spiral back
Pasqualone yawns in the blue sky.
Sharp knife wounds that stab you in the groin, so you gasp and gulp the air, tearing your last breath from the stars as the seed runs into the parched sheets and you fall into the night.
And this is our wilderness.
Four years on the Sun, so many laberls on the luggage and hardly a friendly face.
Always on the move, running int the poisonous bloue sea, running under the July sun. Adrift.
Salt water drips from my fingers, leaving a trail of tiny tears in the burning sand
The fishermen carry me hight on their shoulders. I can hear you sobbing, Jerusaleme.
Rough hands warm my dying body, snatched from the cold blue sea.
Oggetto d’arte!
E io sono molto caro.
They’re rowing me back to the village, Their breath warm on my blue lips.
Man’s character is his fate
I’m dying in time to the plash of their oars. If arms as steady as these had embraced me in life...
To think, Jerusaleme, our friendship should end in this room, this cold white room so far from home.
The rat played out his life on the cogs of the great wooden clock quite carelessly
Is horrible perverted and place high on the altars of Rome in mockery
My shadow passes.
The flies spiral back
Pasqualone yawns in the blue sky.
Sharp knife wounds that stab you in the groin, so you gasp and gulp the air, tearing your last breath from the stars as the seed runs into the parched sheets and you fall into the night.
And this is our wilderness.