Marco Di Caprio

Has everything I think already been written or said by others?
Or is there still something left to discover?
Is there anything beyond these transistors and these valves,
that nail me to the ground,
where I branch out like a cypress?

Now that an industrial rhythm, almost ancestral,
lulls my sight to sleep,
an electric impulse speaks to my dreams again:
you have forgotten nature,
which waits to be better heard.
You will have to listen to it carefully
and tune yourself to the way it sings.
Then you will return among men
and try to remember
not its song, perfect and unrepeatable,
but the memory of its beauty.
But of course.

I run to embrace nature,
but the more I look at it,
the more I see it reflecting my distorted image,
mirrored in its electronic eyes.