Poetry

vincent bilotta photo

 

By

Maria Tosti

 

 

One Year More

 

 

Only one year more,

only one,

365 days to add

to your life;

a little part

in the slow rolling of Your Time;

the last small fragment

of a great existence.

 

Only one year, but

this number so little

and almost irrelevant

can hold in itself

a myriad of events,

many happy moments and perhaps

also some worries.

 

One year more,

an insignificant particle

that added to all the others

obtains a significance,

a stage of growth

on the long road that

destiny reserved for you.

 

It’s only one year more,

only one,

that, if it’s put

into the balance of life,

doesn’t weigh so much;

another small finishing line

in the incessant Run.

 

What’s a year, after all,

compared with the immensity

of a whole life?

A blink,

an instant, an essence,

a fragment of that Whole

so much vaster.

 

It’s only one year more,

don’t make a tragedy out of it,

it’s one year more,

only one.

 

 

 

 

Time

 

 

On the summit of the mountain

I saw Time as an old man without age

with a long white beard

and the lively eyes of a child

intent on scanning

every corner of the earth.

 

The solitary venerable old gentleman has been there

since the Creation of the world

measuring every moment

and thinking about what will be

of him, at the end of it all.

 

His is the rhythm of the seasons

and the miracle of the growth

of everything,

his is the medicine much used

by the human race

and the path that

destiny takes.

 

All history has passed and will pass

in front of his eyes

and the days will become months

and the months years.

 

I saw him lean on his stick,

tired and worn out,

walking everywhere

and I saw him in the wrinkles of my face

leaving a sign of his

unstoppable path.

 

 

 

 

I’m With You

 

 

I’m with you from the first day

when, little and frail,

you revealed yourself to life,

I’m always near you

in every moment

of this long road

that we have to do together.

 

Every night I watch over you,

I stretch my wings over your repose,

I caress your dreams and pray

so that not even one of them will be missing.

 

I’m with you also when

the world slaps you

and you work hard to contain your rage

or when, undecided, you stop

at the crossroads of your doubts

pondering which street to take.

 

I’m with you every time you feel lonely

and when you are looking for an embrace

that nobody gives you,

I always offer mine

or when you are looking for someone vainly

to return your smile,

I’m the one to return it to you.

 

I support your step

so that you don’t have to stagger

and be seized with the discouragement of your fear

and when you are sad, I suffer with you

shouldering all of your pain

and drying yours tears,

but in the moments of joy

my heart sings with yours in unison

and my look lightens

every time I see you to give love.

 

I guide you because you can rediscover

your divinity of God’s son

and to take you back one day to the Source

that created and desired me

to be your Guardian Angel.

 

 

 

 

A Man Like Many

 

 

You walk alone on the road and think.

The others have forgotten

that you exist, for them you are considered nothing,

you are nothing.

 

You say that people are only capable

of making you suffer

and you carry this pain

every day, every hour,

every instant of your life.

 

Tired of walking you sit down

on a cold park bench

and continue to reflect:

what’s the use of being born, living and then

dying if you never enjoyed

a single moment of happiness?

 

You see not far off some children

playing and laughing together

and in front of your eyes you still recall

the child you were,

when you had no problems

and you too joked and jumped

like them.

 

For a fraction of time you deceive yourself

that all this one day can change,

but it is not a hope,

only a damned illusion.

 

You casually rest your hands

on the cold bench

a little bit rusty, like your heart

and you notice how they are

ice-cold, but not like

your heart which is now like

a stone and no longer hears anything.

 

You say to yourself once more:

“I am nobody!”

You spring up and, disappointed,

retrace your steps, leaving

behind you

a cold empty bench,

where one day like so many

a man sat down

who said he was nobody.

 

 

 

 

 

Maria Tosti

Maria Tosti was born in Perugia, Italy, and lives in a small Umbrian town crossed by the river Tiber. She has written poems since she was a teenager. She participated at several national poetry awards along the years, getting many appreciations. Her writings have appeared in various national and international literary journals, magazines, literary blogs, poetry platforms and anthologies.

Her poetry is a path of reflections and considerations on the human existence and life experiences. Creating is a breath of art for her, and setting the emotions on paper is to give voice to the inspiration that comes from inside with insistence. She is convinced that Poetry doesn’t belong only to the intellectuals, but to everybody because it is a universal message destined to touch the strings of the sensitivity of each individual, permeating the nuances of his feeling.

She usually writes in Italian but likes writing poetry in other languages ??too, such as English, Spanish and French. Her artistic works also include visual poems, thanks to her passion for photography. Maria also wrote the text of some songs in Italian, looking for a new way of expression and a new artistic technique. Two of her texts have been set to music, one by the Italian composer Pasqualino Moscatelli, and the other by the master Daniel Cianelli.

Her literary debut was with the poetry book “Voci ai confini dell’anima” that can be translated into “Voices to the bounderies of the soul,” published by Thoth Editions in the year 2014 both in paper and eBook format. The book includes poems in Italian, English, French and Spanish.