The Artist
I leaf through the pages of this book
And again I think of you
It is a book of artists, mad but honest,
who do what they please
believe me, it would have been perfect
to blossom there like a rose.
I know, you've said it so many times
That living is worthwhile only for that.
And now that you have immensity and all the lights before you,
sing, sing again
the only audience that can understand you
tell me, tell us softly
that I won't miss that madness.
Coming to grips with your mysticism
has often made me reflect
searching, understanding, becoming a man has been easier
and in this August night I stop
to salute your star
on this night of falling stars that look like tears
but you smile to me.
Look at my wet verses, they are only for us
Sing, sing louder,
make me feel that I am far
your ingenuous surprise reminds me
that the artist is here.

Gian Filippo Cameli

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