Marco Di Caprio

Has everything I think
already been written or said?
Or is there still something left
to discover?

Is there anything beyond
these transistors and valves
that pin me to the ground,
where I root like a cypress?

Now an industrial rhythm, almost ancestral,
lulls my senses into sleep.
An electric impulse speaks again
within my dreams:

you have forgotten nature.
It waits to be heard.
You must listen closely
and tune yourself to its song.

Then you will return among men
and try to recall
not the song itself,
perfect and unrepeatable,
but the memory of its beauty.

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