If, by heavenly blessing, those who are no longer used to the sound of rhymes could grab in their hands and ears these poems by Mario da Corgeno, without the support of his biography to inform about his origin and his poetry, they could be trapped by a misunderstanding. His verses of Michael-Angelistic shape have been given to a pair of eyes which were looking out from the slit of a soul.
Having discovered his name among all papers is not due to the Providence, as I dare anybody to doubt if we are talking about a man from the Renaissance period.
A sharp and knowing reviewer , with eyes still soaked in the dusty light of his studio-room, would not hesitate to quickly mark  this serious oversight as a “minor sublime”, lost among dusty volumes. On the other hand,  also Buonarroti was considered as a minor artist and he was given the appellative of “amateurish poet”. 

Mario da Corgeno has always declared to owe something to that divine hand. His journey is a quick and miraculous one. Poetry which  has allowed a fast crossing throughout the centuries, with the rapidity by which the young child from Caprese used to throw little stones from one side  of the Singerna to the other. From far away, I imagine that from Corgeno and Caprese there are harmonious forests of poetry that lay their shade on times and people, but they allow the bright rays of “creation” to enliven for his pupil also, who, like his master, performs his work while he “honours and preys God, for the pasute, for the herd and for the work”. And like that offers a precious material, and the marble that is shaped by his hand has no other reason than to appeal to a  “seer” from Lombardy as he is, the Treasures, that for the Michael-Angelistic compositions brightly talked about poetry “session of stone sculpting”. Poetry that carries in its tired arms the same tiredness, but of which “it breaks the chains” of living in emptiness, desperately looking for love.  Love which is made of a marble not to be found nearby, nevertheless it must be looked for unceasingly with an accurate prey of hope and charity, with the awareness that it is anyway going toward the cross that is waiting for each of us, but that the artist sometimes has the privilege to perceive earlier and to feel for it such a pain compared to which the forgetfulness of the inattentive reviewers is like a twig tickling the belly. What is important is that that search takes to the reunion with his Master, in a single poetic hug and with “the joy to embrace you” to share the love for all arts that does not stop, before the stone, but is becomes solid and eternal in words. 

That eternal which is the time of the art, which stops in images only, in lips that draw a smile and “my eyes half close”. A voice that I know is not coming from Renaissance, even if it arrives from there, to become an exemplar witness of my “strange time”. It sings in a ceremonious silence, not far from this room, where between hands resting and spirit resting is still able to look up to “the stars” that become “clusters of kisses”. Astonishment is what the new rhymes of Corgeno  cause; they meet the anastrophy, brought out from this soul that lights up the night in which we all  move, as we have lost that poetry that gets the man to God. For us night is darkness only, but for Mario da Corgeno and his Master it still is gloomily and musically perfect “in the shadow of death”.