THE POEM
It is day.
The howl of a strange beast
from deep in the desecrated country.
The earth waits
for the madness of seeds.
The wind shakes off whorls
strange sterile grasses
which drink greedily
where the insect never rests.
The lizard lifts its head from the stone
twisting to look at me.
The gecko climbs flat out up its vegetable slope
Unruly boys
kicking and throwing stones
at the last cow.
Steel blooms malignly in the open.
Days and nights
rust and moon
and this damned wind.
(One day sun, corn and poppies
will cling to doors and windows)
The owl, from deep in the fields,
defends her young
from the acid smoke
of these factories,
the ditch where the frogs sang sweetly
has been buried with rubble,
at the memory of the ancient smell
of good bread
a lament
softly rises up:
an ancient folk song.
(Translation by Susan Perry)
From Il cielo, le spine, la pietra
Poesie scelte (1995)
Murgia. Photo Archivio Fotogramma