Davide Rocco Colacrai: “Τα ποιήματα ταξιδεύουν από την Ιταλία με μουσική και χρώματα…”

Επιμέλεια: Εύα Πετρόπουλου-Λιανού ποιήτρια-συγγραφέας

Biography: Legal and Criminologist, Davide Rocco Colacrai (Zurich, 1981) has taken part in Literature Awards since 14 years and has won over thousand awards. He is author of nine books, the last one is Della stessa sostanza dei padri – poesie al maschile (2021). His poems have been translated into English, Spanish, French, Russian, Albanian, Chinese and Bengali. 

Christ with violin – dedicated to Baris Yazgi

[I am] the first day of school of a little man
who is ashamed to speak – Fabrizio Moro

I feel the wave watching over the meeting of my last heartbeats
with its blue variations
where there is no return,
my name that stretches out in pentagram
for those creatures that await the sky,
the horizon that borders on the void
before being nostalgia,
I feel the day that hasn’t broken
and in which, suspended like a drop, I let myself be a dream.

I am a Christ who has a violin for his cross,
his strings my daily bread,
his voice my forgiveness,
light as shell pollen
I let myself be carried away where the starfish
are flowers that sing of love
and the world is a sketch that has stopped burning,
upside down in the shadowy canvas that sparkle
and muffled like the desire for a caress
that desire remains.

I feel my body liquid, without rigging,
and absolute,
almost a tear that slips on the fingerprints of the sea
while the sun paints its ray
with which he stabs me

and I find myself as a groom without a promise and without a dress

a misty albatross that stretches beyond the wave,
where memories are not yet born
and the eyes are silent, while the fingers predict an echo of my land.

Davide Rocco Colacrai

I will be my own Sleeping Beauty – dedicated to Noa Pothoven

I will embellish (my doll) with pink ribbons, yellow flowers in her hair, she will laugh incredulously, oh doll” – Patty Pravo

I. The breath is void
with which my body breathes to its Sinai,
a bow of the universe
which, through the soul, falls silent and vanishes,
the crashing of my wings
against the swollen instant of a panting sky
where there were once certainties,
where every inch of caress marveled
and the constellations wooed
the harmony of a bride, almost a Madonna,
with which I blessed the days
that wet by silence, as I felt them,
crossing them, they resembled the edges of a horizon
that burns and does not dry, names that now
come back chapped by a tear
and that remain without a body, full of a memory
that a hand shakes and it is mine.

II. The pain is void
which tends to the echo of a spasm
which I recognize as the last act,
a curl of a shell
who tenaciously chases love at sunset
when it is a blood orchard
and his psalm remains bare and without a promise
in the perseverance of earth
while the wind writes its score
for the solitude of the step
which approaches the liquid line of the infinity
and tightens its knot
without waiting and without forgiveness.

III. The lights will go out and life will cool.

It will snow at the foot of the curtain.

And I will be my own Sleepy Beauty in a sincere and unforgettable applause, blue, and perhaps absurd, of the heart.


There’s in the short froth of a palpitation
a God waiting like a chrysalis
creating the waves’ host
on which lazes my name

summer dust on figs are words
when sunset makes them red-hot by pulp
at the sunset’s forgiveness where the silence salt,
the shore burnt like skin smelling Malvasia

the scorching stones at the olives’ bottom
they sigh like the heart’s untamed rings,
when the fishermen offshore suspend the nostalgia of the sea
and undo the distance from who we let go
in the line of the horizon

so many stories tell the rocks,
some get caught on the nets,
other collected on the water’s edge like shells,
who smells them is a wet snout of a dog
or the crying in which was dried out a dream.

My city is sleeping.

The pain washed by the seaweeds at the fan of Mistral.

I’m counting all my happinesses
on the noise’s end,
while a seagull is carring love affairs in dialect,
and the sign of the cross a lucky charm.

Davide Rocco Colacrai – Italy