LUNA   ROMANTICA    ITALIANA

                                                              O Luna,
                                                              mia romantica Luna,
                                                              ai tuoi "Santi"
                                                              "Poeti"
                                                              e "Naviganti"
                                                              hanno messo le catene;

                                                              e barbari e pagani
                                                              mistificatori e pusillanimi
                                                              li deridono alla gogna.

                                                              Tu, Luna,
                                                              ancor non vedi...

                                                              e fra gli abissi dell'oblio
                                                              fluttuano alla deriva
                                                              gloria e vestigia
                                                              di tue memorie antiche.

                                                              A "Noi"...,
                                                              ancora figli dell'"Umanesimo",
                                                              >langue il cuore,
                                                              o Luna,
                                                              vederti sempre illusa
                                                              umiliata
                                                              e poi tradita.

                                                              O Luna, Luna,
                                                              allucinogeni e torpore
                                                              ti annebbiano la mente;

                                                              e falsi "Eletti",
                                                              "Profeti" e "Dei"
                                                              vagano per il mondo
                                                              e ci rubano il tuo cielo.

                                                              "Noi",
                                                              romantici d'amore
                                                              ancora forte ti gridiamo:

                                                              Mida e Medea!
                                                              Sono gli amanti
                                                              e le vedove nere
                                                              di lutti e veleni.

                                                              Sorgi!
                                                              Mediterranea Luna.

                                                              Trionfa con la tua luce
                                                              su queste fosche
                                                              e giudaiche ombre:

                                                              Acefali impinguiti
                                                              di bibliche stantie
                                                              e pensatori solo
                                                              di fuliggini e ragnatele.

                                                              Sorgi,
                                                              sorgi ancora!

                                                              o italica Luna.

                                                              Illumina
                                                              questa lunga notte,
                                                              preda di vampiri
                                                              e sub-umani
                                                              che tessono discordia,
                                                              seminano violenza
                                                              e coltivano ignoranza.

                                                              O Luna, o Luna,
                                                              tu che per amore
                                                              fosti galeotta,

                                                              facci ancor sognare
                                                              le notti
                                                              magiche d'argento
                                                              e l'ebrezze
                                                              adamantine.

                                                              Così,

                                                              lascia che ogni cuore
                                                              s'innamori,
                                                              delle rime di un Poeta.

                                                              Ogni anima
                                                              al suo Santo
                                                              confidi le sue pene
                                                              e la preghiera.

                                                              E la mente
                                                              sia libera di vivere
                                                              e sognare;

                                                              e sulle ali del Nocchiero

                                                              voli!

                                                              Fra stelle, luna e mare
                                                              a cercar l'Amore
                                                              Dio e l'Infinito.

                                                                                                                         ( da "Abele è Risorto" di V.zo Rizzo )

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                                                             NEL GIARDINO DELLE ESPERIDI.

                                                              Nel giardino delle Esperidi
                                                              nascono le mele d'oro.

                                                              Solo tre
                                                              sono le più belle:

                                                              la Speranza, la Fede, l'Amore.

                                                              La Speranza
                                                              apre la porta del Domani.

                                                              La Fede
                                                              illumina la coscienza dello Spirito.

                                                              L'Amore
                                                              porta la gioia nella Vita.

                                                                                                                        ( da "Abele è Risorto" di V.zo Rizzo )

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                                                             AMARE L'ARTE.

                                                              Amare l'Arte

                                                              è segno inequivocabile
                                                              di cultura, di civiltà
                                                              di sentimento e di amore.

                                                              Adornarsi di essa
                                                              è pure segno palese
                                                              di prestigio, aristocrazia,
                                                              elevatezza sociale.

                                                              Ignorarla o non capirla
                                                              è barbarie dello spirito
                                                              e decadimento morale.

                                                                                                                         ( da "Abele è Risorto" di V.zo Rizzo )

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                                                             LA POESIA, LA MUSICA, IL COLORE.

                                                              La Poesia, la Musica, il Colore

                                                              sono il fascio di luce
                                                              che illumina
                                                              ogni notte
                                                              il mare delle vuote coscienze.

                                                              Sono loro

                                                              che riconducono a Dio
                                                              le vele smarrite

                                                              fra gli abissi
                                                              dell'egoismo del tempo.

                                                                                                                         ( da "Abele è Risorto" di V.zo Rizzo )

                                                                                            *******************************************

                                          

                                                             COM'E' STRANO.

                                                              Com'è strano:

                                                              gli uomini si dissetano
                                                              ed elevano lo spirito
                                                              con la fiaccola dell'Arte
                                                              e della Conoscenza.

                                                              Ma agli artisti
                                                              che osano valicare
                                                              Porte di Bellezza
                                                              e di Mistero,

                                                              è preclusa la strada
                                                              dell'Amore
                                                              e del sorriso umano

                                                              e spesso nell'ombra
                                                              e nell'oblio
                                                              ne cade la memoria.

                                                                                                                        ( da "Abele è Risorto" di V.zo Rizzo )

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                                                             NOI.

                                                              Noi...

                                                              Petali
                                                              di corolle
                                                              profumo
                                                              di pistilli.

                                                              Noi...

                                                              veli
                                                              colorati
                                                              di stagioni
                                                              d'arcobaleno.

                                                              Noi...

                                                              brezze
                                                              levantine
                                                              acquazzoni
                                                              di tramontana.

                                                              Noi...

                                                              Immagini
                                                              di pensieri
                                                              che tessono
                                                              memorie future.

                                                              Noi...

                                                              sorriso d'alba
                                                              che si "illumina
                                                              d'immenso".

                                                              Noi...

                                                              Lune,
                                                              ultime Lune...

                                                              In un mare
                                                              di stelle
                                                              vele bianche
                                                              d'amore.

                                                                                                                        ( da "Italia Romantica" di V.zo Rizzo )

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                                                             ... QUEL FOULARD DI SETA GIALLO.

                                                              ... e quel foulard
                                                              di seta giallo,
                                                              che l'oblio
                                                              distrattamente
                                                              lasciò cadere...

                                                              E' rimasto
                                                              ancora lì:
                                                              impigliato
                                                              sul cancello
                                                              della memoria...

                                                                                                                        ( da "Italia Romantica" di V.zo Rizzo )

                                                                                            *******************************************

                                          

                                                             SE QUI ALL'ALBA...

                                                              Se qui,
                                                              all'alba,

                                                              è ancora
                                                              fonda
                                                              la notte...

                                                              dove cercarti
                                                              se questi occhi

                                                              sono ancora
                                                              abbagliati
                                                              dal buio...

                                                                                                                        ( da "Italia Romantica" di V.zo Rizzo )

                                                                                            *******************************************

                                          

                                                             RIVERBERI D'AMORE.

                                                              Violenti
                                                              e tenaci riverberi

                                                              di vita
                                                              e di amore

                                                              fra le ombre
                                                              della notte

                                                              la palude
                                                              gemendo
                                                              tace.

                                                              Alta
                                                              e sognatrice
                                                              la luna
                                                              ancor m'illude.

                                                              E l'animo
                                                              con gli occhi
                                                              tuoi
                                                              mi accarezza.

                                                                                                                        ( da "Italia Romantica" di V.zo Rizzo )

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                                                             LA RICERCA D'ESISTERE.

                                                              Io,
                                                              quel giorno
                                                              non c'ero

                                                              .......
                                                              La mia assenza,
                                                              era solo
                                                              ricerca d'esistere.

                                                              .......
                                                              Ma tu,
                                                              dov'eri?

                                                              .......
                                                              Di te,
                                                              non hai
                                                              lasciato
                                                              nulla ...

                                                                                                                        ( da "Italia Romantica" di V.zo Rizzo )

                                                                                            *******************************************

                                          

                                                             NEI PRATI DEL SOGNO.

                                                              Nei prati del sogno
                                                              io cerco, ogni notte,
                                                              i colori
                                                              ancor non fioriti
                                                              dell'arcobaleno.

                                                              .......
                                                              Li porterò
                                                              racchiusi negli occhi!

                                                              Al primo risveglio ...
                                                              colorerò
                                                              di tinte d'amore
                                                              tutti i cieli dell'uomo.

                                                                                                                        ( da "Verso l'Assente" di V.zo Rizzo )

                                                                                            *******************************************

                                          

                                                             UN GRANELLO DI SABBIA.

                                                              Com'è triste,
                                                              sentirsi un granello
                                                              in un deserto di sabbia.

                                                              Una goccia
                                                              nell'immensità dell'oceano.

                                                              Misurare il tempo
                                                              col metro della vita.

                                                                                                                        ( da "Verso l'Assente" di V.zo Rizzo )

                                                                                            *******************************************

                                          

                                                             RIFLESSI.

                                                              Queste umane forme,
                                                              che nel buio
                                                              anelano fuggenti,

                                                              forse sono riflessi!

                                                              Riflessi storpi
                                                              di pensieri

                                                              buttati come zavorra
                                                              nel baratro dell'infinito.

                                                                                                                        ( da "Verso l'Assente" di V.zo Rizzo )

                                                                                            *******************************************

                                          

                                                             L'ETERNO ESISTERE, L'ETERNO MORIRE.

                                                              L'eterno esistere
                                                              è dell'Amore
                                                              amare il suo bene.

                                                              L'eterno morire
                                                              è del Peccato
                                                              godere il suo male.

                                                                                                                        ( da "Verso l'Assente" di V.zo Rizzo )

                                                                                            *******************************************

                                          

                                                             IL TEMPO ...

                                                              Il Tempo ...
                                                              forse,

                                                              è pioggia di tristezza
                                                              sulla ragnatela del pensiero ...

                                                              Forse ...

                                                              è solo attesa,
                                                              l'attesa dei vinti
                                                              dietro lo steccato dell'amore ...

                                                              O, forse,

                                                              è solo pietà,
                                                              che asciuga al vento dell'oblio
                                                              le lacrime umane.

                                                                                                                        ( da "Verso l'Assente" di V.zo Rizzo )

                                                                                            *******************************************

                                          

                                                             SE VI FOSSE UNO SPECCHIO.

                                                              Se vi fosse uno specchio
                                                              che potesse riflettere
                                                              l'interiorità umana,

                                                              non basterebbe la luce del mondo
                                                              per specchiare l'essenza dell'Io:

                                                              sepolto da muraglie di tempo
                                                              e barriere di morte.

                                                                                                                        ( da "Verso l'Assente" di V.zo Rizzo )

                                                                                            *******************************************

                                          

                                                             LUCE FATUA.

                                                              Tu Luce,
                                                              non mi inganni più;

                                                              il regno
                                                              in cui tu splendi

                                                              è animato
                                                              solo da fantasmi.

                                                              E chissà,
                                                              per quale sorte,

                                                              il Tempo fa agitare
                                                              creando l'illusione
                                                              della vita.

                                                                                                                        ( da "Verso l'Assente" di V.zo Rizzo )

                                                                                            *******************************************

                                          

                                                             UN SOGNATORE ROMANTICO.

                                                              Oggi canterò per te,
                                                              perduto amore.
                                                              E nulla m'importa
                                                              se queste sardine
                                                              vestite di latta,
                                                              penseranno che sia
                                                              un sognatore romantico.

                                                              Ti canterò le mie odi,
                                                              cogliendo le frasi
                                                              d'amor più febbrili.

                                                              Han voglia di dirmi
                                                              che sono una ruggine
                                                              del secolo scorso;
                                                              e le mie ferraglie
                                                              ormai di umano
                                                              non hanno più nulla.

                                                              Non m'importa!
                                                              Anche se al petto
                                                              un cuore antico
                                                              mi pulsa,
                                                              e la mente
                                                              d'aria e di luce
                                                              ancor si alimenta.

                                                              Anzi,
                                                              dirò che si sono sbagliati.
                                                              Perchè io so
                                                              di non essere umano,
                                                              se uomini questi robot
                                                              si vantano d'essere.

                                                              Sono un uccello
                                                              che ha perso le ali,
                                                              ma non la voglia
                                                              di amare e soffrire.

                                                                                                                        ( da "Verso l'Assente" di V.zo Rizzo )

                                                                                            *******************************************

                                          

                                                             LA FORNACE DELL'EGO.

                                                              Beati gli uomini
                                                              che del loro pensiero
                                                              fanno ferro rovente;

                                                              e dalla fornace dell'ignoranza
                                                              si innalzano luminose
                                                              canne di organo.

                                                                                                                        ( da "Verso l'Assente" di V.zo Rizzo )

                                                                                            *******************************************

                                          

                                                             LA FEDE PERDUTA.

                                                              Nell'oblio
                                                              dell'umano pensiero,
                                                              io cerco,
                                                              ogni notte,
                                                              per valli
                                                              e deserti
                                                              cattedrali di fede
                                                              sepolte nel tempo.

                                                              Fra le canne dell'organo
                                                              è rimasta impigliata
                                                              la fede dell'uomo;
                                                              e non s'ode più
                                                              il canto d'amore
                                                              del coro degli angeli.

                                                                                                                        ( da "Verso l'Assente" di V.zo Rizzo )

                                                                                            *******************************************

                                          

                                                             RIFLESSIONE.

                                                              La natura,
                                                              spesso adopera lo "sterco"
                                                              per farne concime...

                                                              Lei,
                                                              cioè la Natura,
                                                              dice che da esso,
                                                              cioè dallo sterco,
                                                              nascono frutti migliori.

                                                              Non lo so...!?
                                                              Certo,
                                                              a volte capita
                                                              vedere un bel fiore
                                                              brillare
                                                              su un ombroso roveto.

                                                              Però,
                                                              io non credo
                                                              che sia lo sterco
                                                              a fare il miracolo...

                                                              Chissà...!?
                                                              E se poi
                                                              è il fiore che nasce
                                                              perchè dello sterco
                                                              copra l'olezzo?...!

                                                                                                                        ( da "Monografia" di V.zo Rizzo )

                                                                                            *******************************************