The icy wind polishes the curls of the balustrade
and the hard leaves of the magnolia that seeks
refuge between the closed walls of my garden.
It was not she who saw me playing
with her white flowers.
But from her brown branches rises the scent
of a song in the language of the sea
that was once mine.
There, the mountain has a mouth
streaked with blood and trembling flanks
emerging from green sea caves.
Along the sunny streets,
I held by the hand of sweet hope
looked at the periwinkle sky
with plumes of white clouds like angels’ wings.
She and I looked at each other laughing.
Or maybe it was she who laughed
and I listened to the silvery bursts
that modulated her lips.
In my memories of exuberant springs
the austere magnolia illuminated
by the flowering cups stands out among
the white almond trees that open their petals,
deliver them to the warmth of the wind
and to the young brides who wait impatiently
the rough hands outstretched to undress them.
Dancers dressed in blood and mourning,
cadenced by ancient movements,
silver bells on their wrists,
celebrate the inebriating rites of love.
Now migrated under the sky of Rome,
distracted by the beauties of stone
and by the men drowned in an anonymous present,
I do not know of this sweet hope.
Even the cold wind and the fragile magnolia
grown in the shelter of this house ignore it.
I will mourn the abandoned earth
I will forever remember its sunny spaces
the sweet face of hope.
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In a Love World 