LURAGANO DENTRO ME PDF GRATIS

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NCERT Class 8 Mathematics: Free and Fast Download of PDF Don't miss in BITSAT reasoning and comprehension section, get Examrace postal course. Why Everybody Is Speaking About Read Dentro Luragano File Description: LUragano Dentro Me Ebook PDF:Scarica GRATIS il libro ebook LUragano dentro . La lascio decantare dentro di me, la lascio lavorare, soprattutto all 'alba, negli noi stille sorprese in medio campo un infittito scroscio, ci affoga l'uragano, « Di quanto ad abundantiam e gratis, senza riconoscenza, ho profuso in ogni.

Ma quando il suo povero bagaglio postumo fu rovistato, si vide che ne aveva lasciato sopravvivere solo tre pagine. Sono quelle che riporto in corsivo. Tuttavia quello del noviziato incessante di lui mi pare riconosci- bile. But when they searched through his meager posthumous possessions, they saw that he had allowed only three pages to survive.

The ordinary symbolism of language no longer satisfied him. He yearned for a discourse that could be the voice of the multiplicity and simultaneity of life and shared by it. Such total resolves eventually find expression in miniature, through allu- sions. That is what his friends have gathered: I one among them.

The request that should be least made in this case is the distinction of subjects and themes that are intentionally only one. Nevertheless that of his endless apprentiship seems recogniz- able to me. I know full well that you and I must grow together mutually — it was written in the stone of his final mile and well within himself.

Amen sotto umana specie. So despite the black work of fate those papers really were in the perpetual happening. Invariable was only the action of the air that leafs through them, turns them, consumes them, transmutes them with itself into something else.

So it seemed, so it was.

Furente il gelsomino, a sprazzi, in quella raffica acuisce il suo profumo, esacerba il suo richiamo. Ibi ipse est. Addio, dove vai giorno, dove ti accompagna il fiume? The jasmine rages fitfully, it sharpens its fragrance in that blast, redoubles its call. The whole garden is in agony that he from the pavilion barely grazes with his sultan eyes used to the seasons, to their deceits, conscious of the many shufflings of the only principle. The water is lazy, the slash of a last slanting light from the west still muddles its molten lead.

Farewell, where are you going day, where does the river lead you? A single immutable pace unites them and connects them day and river toward annihilation and toward the great return at the top of morning that reconquers all and illuminates all. A che? Quel pane, quelle mani che lo frangono, lo sguardo, il troppo lesto addio. Sarebbe stata poi — lo sapevamo noi di Emmaus — questa la materia del racconto.

Vennero e se ne andarono al primo far del giorno. Chi era che veniva a quale incontro col passato o col presente? To what? My companion glances at him, and I too take care to observe him without seeming to.

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That bread, those hands that break it, the gaze, the all too-sudden farewell. This was to be later — we from Emmaeus knew it — the subject of the tale. They came and left by early morning. Who was coming to what meeting with the past or present? Sarebbe senza me uniforme, pieno, invasato della propria inopia, festoso. Why am I entering that swoon? Without me it would be uniform, full, obsessed by its own want, festive.

So life descends, so descends, seemingly unopposed, its ruin to regenerate itself in death for the after, for the beginning.

The gold glimmer of the plane trees turns to sky, it has no hour or season, or rather it does have them and this jubilation burns them, this invincible alchemy exhales them in clarity, it unites them and purifies them to the luminous essence of the end and the beginning. Come fulmine in cristallo la chiamata venne. Lo avrebbe poi la roccia sinuosa del cammino mostrato e occultato mille volte il termine del pellegrinaggio.

Continuamente era e non era chiaro, chiara era la sua dura andatura desiderata, necessaria. Oh non mancasse mai strada al suo lungo insaziabile itinerario!

The towns teemed high and far in that blue. Like lightning in crystal came the call. Oh may no road be wanting to its long insatiable itinerary! Suddenly that sea of matter light air caught fire in the depths of his thoughts, that music, that radiance entered the labyrinth and every cavity of his skull — but man was or seemed aleatory, his history precarious in that climate. Burnt in the unity? I hope. O heaven, was time to come sotto umana specie.

Non si ha notizia. O ce ne sfugge il ricordo… sotto umana specie. There they are in front of him in that infant chasteness of the painting. They were not emissaries or ambassadors of anyone in the world, they were there, suspended, between grace and desire, bystanders of the perpetual event: Because he was. There is no word. Or the memory of it escapes us Si guarda meravigliata. She looks in wonder at herself. She enters the platinum and gold of that morning fire.

That white radiance brightens the high and low, it has wholly suffused the haze. Where is she? Oh flos. Dopo di che a lungo era piovuto pioggia e tedio, a lungo era indurato sole, plenilunio, assedio. Chi vinceva il tempo? Colori e luci non ne offre la tana al mio risveglio, mulinano sotto umana specie. And in light, in pure name it blazes in her.

After, it had rained for a long time, rain and tedium, long had lasted sun, full moon, siege Who conquered time? My lair does not offer any color or light when I awake, sotto umana specie. E lui teneva acceso quel furente assedio sotto umana specie. O pelagic fire, o mutual mutation, of the multiple appearances and the only substance, pure life, pure persistence of life beyond its matter in the uncontainable blazing— will I be in you or you in me?

Is it him, not a mariner from other worlds, not a double? He is beside himself, those features are his, something surely his, left at the edges of the grind and of the scene in the stopovers, the tie-ups, overflows from them mortified. Or so the image may be reintegrated before the final fadeout? And it kept that furious siege burning sotto umana specie.

Suoi dardi bersagliavano infuocati il costato da ogni parte. Suoi messaggi e sussurri cercavano pertugi a penetrarci dentro il sangue.

E questo era il tributo, questa la mutua ricompensa. Infine si dichiara, appare ora aperto quel sigillo. A lungo ne trattenne quel brillio Roma tra le sue ferme ciglia.

Its flaming arrows riddled the ribcage from every side. Its messages and whispers sought openings to penetrate our blood. Creation blazed for us creatures like a disease or like a loving arrogance For us on the threshold, yes, but now we had already become its substance because in him was the pearl of our knowledge and we would descend from year to year ever deeper to capture it.

And this was the tribute, the mutual reward. At last it declares itself, that seal now appears open. Finally the penultimate fraction of its duration caught fire among the branches, then the last, the final one.

For quite a while Rome held that sparkle between her steady lashes. And now — does he imagine or remember? Mournful — but what does it matter — is the first black glow of things in the room where incredibly it dawns. The tossed butterfly of its continuity wavers between yes and no but now awaiting him on the threshold, drawing him in and at once dazzling him is the world flooded with reality, present — oui, on est bien au dedans.

Oh dies. The day has broken, the blaze purples in the east of the dizzying dome The sky, varied, opens and frays out even more ragged, just beyond the pier sotto umana specie.

Furia, meria. Coinvolti noi in quella danza. E allora benedetta, primavera acerba che tremi e sali alla tua prima erba e che di nuovo inventi la tua favola e la mia e che in amore riequipari il mondo, il mondo e il suo creatore. Fury, shade. To what end — spring after spring he asks himself — life calls us back to itself not interrupted and not dead it starts again from itself to itself We are taken in that dance.

Then bless you, unripe spring that tremble and rise to your first grass and again invent your fairy tale and mine and that once more make the world equal in love, the world and its creator. Oh pena, oh grazia. Where is it?

And I, art, am a bit the dark, the luminous part of it. Oh pain, oh grace. Di che luce si riempie il cuore, di che pena. Tutto umano, tutto alieno il tempo che quello spazio assedia. Tutto umano, tutto alieno il dopo, il prima, la terra, il cielo che chiude perfetto la sua rima.

Beyond there is Siena. What light fills the heart, what pain.

All human, all alien the time that besieges that space. All human, all alien the time after and before, the earth, the sky that closes perfectly its rhyme. Impara presto quella sua antica musica la pioggia, la riesuma dalle ere pluviali una sua fonda memoria, le aeree ed aquatili cisterne dei pianeti ne sono archivio e testimonio.

Scende, la sentiamo sotto umana specie.

There is — neither air nor grass can contain it — there is an overflowing exultation from trill to trill of jubilation and of song, the happened event floods over, the resurrection bursts forth as breath or wind across the whole horizon. Feast of healing from frost and death you descend to celebrate yourself in the open field and rise to the sun for the reintegration of life in life, free us, I beg you, from the vise, nunc et semper.

The rain learns its own ancient music very quickly, a deep memory exhumes it from the pluvial eras, the aerial and aquatic cisterns of the planets are archive and witness to it. Tempo e pioggia, tempo e profusione di mondo a se medesimo. We are in the rain, between sky and earth the world sinks into itself, it crumbles into its continuity. The hourglass streams around us under the species of matter, no, of immaterial change.

Time and rain, time and profusion of world onto itself.

Are we absorbed or dissolved by the flow of life toward life rising again? What happens to us, are we called or excluded from the regeneration of the air, of the elements? Oh grazia. Now the rays blaze through the tiniest orifices, the golden semicircle catches fire furtively in the blackness of the room, clandestine crown to the victory of the morning. And now open contingency, summer, wraps him with its needlefuls the gold-green skein of his vacation seizes him, drags him up and down the hills.

And meanwhile the blue flower of the morning mows down his memory in crystalline seasons. Present July around him is a dream, his reminiscence is filled with the present.

So he climbs, plunges into the depths, into the essence, without time, without difference. Everything is. Everything is, fairly. Oh grace. Oh mattina. Mattina che tutte le annulla e tutte le comprende, mattina di conciliazione, santa.

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Pure tutto cuoce, carbonizza, flagra. Ombra a picco, avara, nuda terra crettata si sgretola, si polverizza. Vampa, bocca di fornace, sotto umana specie. Oh morning. Brightness ran through all its valleys of air and blue, a few flashes, sparks, a few sprays of its excessive fullness darted high and low, in the ethereal field. It came, it reached its height, the instant exulted, it shattered in a perfect coincidence of past and present, any distinction between time and time collapsed in a blinding eternity.

Morning that annuls them all and contains them all, morning of conciliation, holy. It is, she feels, it is, steep, endlessly. It melts her instant inside, in her depths.

Yet everything is scorched, charred, ablaze. Plunging shadow, stingy, bare cracked earth crumbles, turns to dust. Blaze, furnace mouth, sotto umana specie.

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E noi dentro quel fuoco resine stillanti, oh liberazione dalle scorze. And we dripping resins within that fire, oh freedom from the barks. The eagle perhaps: The summit in the sky and of the day down here Being descending into itself blazes in its abodes. Oh anima, anima imperante. Occhio fermo, perspicuo, cristallino, non visto, onniveggente. Sense and intelligence are one, the idea descends completely into its form, each thing inhabits its own deity and shines from it.

The image fills with essence. Slim adolescent, Caterina enters in herself radiantly. Oh soul, reigning soul. Eye still, lucid, crystalline, unseen, all-seeing. Burning naked, scorching with identity the rose rids herself of symbol, annuls song, music, memory, she erodes image and any other hunger of the human and animal mind, any other enslavement on herself, her substance.

She is. O rosa ipsa, o queen of herself.

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But the beetle descends its winding vein of air comes down toward her in a drone and that flight now ties her once more to the chain of universal brotherhood.

Fitto ma con radure. Thick but with clearings. There in the half shadow green, then copper green, deep-darkening green that putrid mixture of leaves and sludge, dark lens at times of glimmers of the blue and the clouds within the darkness and the shadows of the trails that branch out and get lost in their own woof.

Forest thick with deceits, vertigo and coolness, step by step till the open space blazing with cicadas. He disappears in it, puddles here and there, trickles Lizard ever alive, that dryness emerges unexpectedly. He, the river, lives his aridity, lives it fluvially craving abundance, flow, breath, upwind sotto umana specie.

Oh, la pluie viendra. Airy, luminous in the high noon those crashes, those landslides. He is ready, straight on his claws Oh hic, oh nunc. Needles of fire amid the foliage that covers us and darkens us often pierce it backwards as a flash? You are here intensely, you are here to the point of seeming to be missing, concealed in the instant, sunken in the present, thus united to the world that takes you completely, to annihilation, but the numinous sun bestows the where and when on you, almost lizardlike.

Blue and its glimmers, July scorches the brimming pine cone plumb down over the chasm. We are, chorus of cicadas, taken as well into that ardor, the celestial factory keeps us snared in its honey, enclosed in its molds. Oh morso! Why, year, were you not savored in your prana as a celestial gift? You were, but the worries devoured all your honey Oh time offended by humanity, mortified, by nothing compensated, except for the indelible smile of prevailing conciliation. Looming, dark fate or black memory of the hecatomb, is the hazard in the furious sun, it nails time upon itself, it racks it under the fire of invisible arrows.

The world craves and fears itself, it shuns and rubs its hard flesh Ha rari e tardi vogatori il mezzogiorno. Tempo fuori del tempo la mente non ne pensa The river is a mirror, the water a transparent crystal shaded by the banks, yet it lives, it lavishes its wateriness from the oars raised upon the tholes. Noon has a few listless oarsmen.

Everything around is still. Has time gone or is it coming towards us? Time outside time the mind does not think about it The city breathes in its torpid, sweaty morning. An ultra-leafy October fakes a full summer, it flares, it offers flowers sotto umana specie.

Strane luci, strano sguardo di che nume. Watchful, the river seems asleep, it is not true, it does not sleep, it hides its sluggish movement in the splendor of the foliage but it descends, it descends to the sea as always.

Strange lights, strange gaze of what deity. Addio pausa, addio calda bonaccia. Filtrava esso fusando nelle minime sotto umana specie. Goodbye pause, goodbye warm lull. For a while he had enjoyed his breathing spell in the midday of the waves and their withdrawal. But now that lighting, the alarm for the remaining journey Was it coming from him, from the unappeased depths of his years of sea and adventurous routes or was it a warning of the future ambush of events?

But one and reciprocal is the path, outlet and spring are one and the same The journey unwinds but it doubles back upon itself, there is no bank or shore in that variable increment of whirling light, but it gets near it gets near to what end?

It filtered whirling in the smallest sotto umana specie. Oh freedom, oh absolution of life into full life And yet a man had inhabited that den Ne spande, messaggero, un chiaroscuro di regola superna e di mistero. How were you, man, in reconnaissance or flight? A messenger, he spreads their chiaroscuro of supreme rule and mystery. At his hour he comes out of the backlight from the side of the sea and the mouth, in flight on the edge of the water — so he goes upriver with the calm strength of his wings and haunches, he slips under the bridge spans toward the east, the poverty, the spring.

Is that the sense? A thickening downpour darkens us, droplets caught in midfield, the hurricane drowns us, then the sun clears the heavenly residues of the raging cloudburst. Is it winter or spring? We do not know, we are and are not anything in the constant multiplicity of appearances, yet inside life, inside the wondrous instant. Oh I would like to end it, be erased from the said and the sayable since I was not valued for usefulness or grace, not regarded, discarded for impropriety or unseemliness, thrown away, orphaned, superfluous: Yet they say — the angels, I suppose — that there is no return to non-being, there is no reprieve into nothingness, no matter how much uttered and declared, but all will be forgiven, all sanctified.

Ed ecco li rivuole lui i suoi cimeli, le sue memorie: Venga, oh venga presto irreversibilmente. And now he wants his keepsakes back, his memories.

Then again he uses you and entrusts his ashes to you, he always neglects your mysteries. And I, bone interred and disinterred, to whom do I belong, to man or you, earth, that humbly and hungrily have cleansed me and guarded me, or to the only humoral pathos — It split at the hands of evil and pain and perhaps longs to be fully reunited.

Let it come, oh let it come soon, irreversibly. That multicolored breath exults in the morning jubilation, it rejoices, it revels with colors and air. It has no peace or maybe no station for its delight — it does not but for a moment on tufts and clusters of bright sotto umana specie. Il croco, il fiore. Now it camouflages, it hides but is, where is it? This is how, in the movement and vibration of wings, ether, the world expresses itself minimally, soul, ardor. The crocus, the flower.

Who is its lord, we do not know: E ora era deforme per errore o cattiveria di chi? Si logora, si imbroncia. This is in fact what you and I are, admit it, fraternal twins raised together from the start in grace and sorrow. Yes, for this.

And now he was misshapen through whose error or malice? Non sono ferma, mi muove, forza dura, fraterna, il comune intendimento delle cose al loro fine e al loro annullamento. E ora?

I am not still, a hard fraternal strength, the common purpose of things, moves me toward their aim and their annihilation. And now? I am approaching — oh happiness — a barely deeper point of matter — could it be substance?

What form will it take, reptile, winged, breathing creature? Will I be named or not, I will not have a name, if I do I will answer to that name when it is shouted or only whispered sotto umana specie. Vanno oltre la gita e la vacanza essi a che lido, a che penati? Oh happiness. The already long vigil is at its height and suddenly the day is before them, it comes forward to meet them from where?

They go beyond the excursion and the vacation to what shore, to what penates? Desires divide, the new hangs on to an old face, or it tears itself from it and hides in its future glory. But in themselves they carry — they feel their weight and ferment — the times lost to memory and the times anxious to happen, all unknown.

Times crumble one into the other, in the invisible hourglass. Where is the future one? Only the soul can show it — they say and go on. Non sa. Se la fila il fiume. Li ignora il fiume, fabbrica e distrugge il fiume sotto umana specie.

A memory does not let go of him and escorts him to his ambiguous fate, one for all time omnipresent norm sees to everything — he feels it, is certain of it in his sloping chest It does not know. Nor does the river help. The river runs away. In the regular hours of the current, during flash floods and stagnation, he never really stays, he slips through the chiaroscuro of the arches, he passes, at time he naps a little, why not, under the vaults, but always leaves it to its worries, all alone.

To it belong time, history. The river ignores them, he constantly creates and destroys sotto umana specie. Tra il rosa ed il viola azzurro-aria cangiante, verde anche, verde chiaro-marino in quella plica, in quella pozza tremolante?

Ora, ora, ora. Lo abiti a misura di me e sua il nuovo alito! Here ends a bloody history, but it is hard for it to be dispersed Nothingness or a too-retted substance, what is taking on hue? Between the pink and violet changing sky-blue, even green, sea-light green, in that fold, in that trembling pool?

Now, now, now. He mumbles, glimmers here and there, greedily mirrors the sky within his glades while he descends toward me, open valley, and spreads out in my lap and fills my every part with his strong vein and his coolness and I grant light to him, stir of air and horizon. May the new breath inhabit him on my scale and his!

Sorbiscono quella calma, si cibano sotto umana specie.

Oh continuity, oh return of every beginning to itself. A shining shudder lays siege to her, she shatters it, and it forms again, it follows her and squeezes her in blinding rings along the whole expanse, but she unimpeded, free, free is the athlete that guides her — obeying what other rhythm with his own? They both absorb that calm, they feed sotto umana specie. Oh heur. Then the wake smooths over, that trace disappears in the clear equidistance between everything and nothingness.

That mixture of joy and suffering spins into a frenzy of wings, it soars, the scene on the first loop is all butterflies and flowers, up higher corpuscles, bees, rose-beetles and swallows that plunge down to devour them There is peace above him though, a vaster droning silence in the endless clarity and no feathers, no plunging or flapping in that open chasm But he does not soar toward those regions, his flight does not reach those beatitudes.

Rimani, aria, continua con il tuo mite stendardo ad annunciarci, siamo qui viventi nei buchi, negli avvallamenti del tuo nullo mare. Ti hanno inalata ed esalata gli uomini, le fiere, gli uccelli, gli alberi, le erbe, tutto accadeva nelle tue caverne. Rimani, non mancare. Di che era paura? Stay, air, keep on announcing us with your tame banner, we are here living in the holes, the hollows of your weightless sea.

What was it fear of? So it was. The meager current that runs down gleams here and there, it catches fire on its way to the sea. Farewell, miles of flowing, of patience, of anger, of ecstacy between the banks in the fields, under the bridges. Take me, open sea, extinguish me, but give me back to the origins, take me back to the rock, the spring This shines in the ambiguous halo, it fascinates, confuses me Entra ed esce da quelle voci il mare, con il suo mareggiare, le sue pause, ondate con fragore coprono a tratti quella musica, la spezzano; dilava poi la loro scrosciante ricaduta il mormorio superstite, il respiro che segue, senza limiti e confine… Voci sotto umana specie.

The sea goes in and out of those voices, with its surging, its pauses, crashing waves at times cover that music, shatter it. Then their roaring fall washes away the remaining murmur, the breathing that follows, without limits and bounds Voices sotto umana specie. But those places, those eras, get lost one in the other. There the anxious itinerary advanced in extremis — towards what? Along the twisting stair we descend yet climb with her toward the oval eye of the luminous vault that longing seeks — where is it?

Ne recano il segno le tue musiche chiunque tu sia che mi tormenti con le tue lamentazioni dal perduto grembo di anima e materia, di umano, divino, subumano uniti in una orchestra.

Your music bears their mark whoever you may be who torment me with your lamentations from the lost womb of soul and matter, human, divine, subhuman united in an orchestra. I the age-old feast. Ristagna, esso, da quando? E loro sorbiscono beati quella fradicia opulenza e in lei un nettare sottile Dove vanno, dove vanno con il loro andare ed il loro ritornare sempre al punto del sobbalzo i colombi?

Autumn has walked for a long time among its bonfires, the gold of its nimbus is burnished, ash-grey the trail and the carpet of its steeping And they happily drink in that rotting opulence and its subtle nectar Mortality and the promise of a beginning pervades them equally. Where are they going, where are the doves going with their going and their coming back always at the point of takeoff?

Guarda bene. Fino in fondo. Non ritrarti, non coprirti con le mani il viso, non comprimerti le palpebre, non stornare il volto. Oh angelos. Look carefully.

All the way. The abyss of blinding light and darkness is all smoking still. The melee is not over, the yes and no of the world pursue and face each other in the whirlpool of the reeling dance. Le passa sul viso, le ara i pensieri silenziosamente questo… Oh Karis. This passes over her face, it silently plows her thoughts Oh morning, oh heavenly arrogance, do not overwhelm me, do not take me by force, I am not ready yet — she thinks and meanwhile she murmurs it to her wavering reluctance — against you is the weight and shadow of my opacity that night has not burnt and the awakening has not scattered.

I beg you, new day, come, but come slowly, slowly penetrate the substance, light me like a lamp, so I will be votive as I must and want sotto umana specie. Ma in alto, sulle cime, a chi rideva il silenzio delle nevi? Rounding the promontory from the mountain fell a cone of shadows over the quivering glitter. The black wedge suffered, then off shore the imprisoned water began once more to clearly ape the sea But high upon the summits, for whom laughed the silence of the snows?

Si occulta o si dichiara il mondo. Annera essa il gregge bianco lattescente delle sue sorelle — in alto ancora la luce si dibatte, per ora non soccombe, ma lei porta la pece del suo massiccio vello in mezzo a quel corteggio. The world conceals and declares itself. Its wrinkled and velvety flesh denies itself, it offers and extends itself to our knowledge It blackens the milky-white flock of its sisters — up high the light still struggles, it still does not yield, but it brings the pitch of its thick fleece amid that retinue.

There is no malice, nor spite, gloomy and innocent in its blackness is the cloud that offends sotto umana specie.

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L'uragano dentro me

Oh venias. Oh morning. Consubstantially he was there also present from image to image or hovered not captured by that honey, attracted by it, resisting it. That bread, those hands that break it, the gaze, the all too-sudden farewell.

Everything around is still. Furthermore, Luigi Bonaffini enjoyed an ex- cellent rapport with Luzi himself and was able to benefit from his willingness to answer questions concerning translation. Suoi messaggi e sussurri cercavano pertugi a penetrarci dentro il sangue.

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