www.domist.net/eng literature - poems

Nine eleven

( Mirella Floris ITA - 11 settembre 2001 - trad. Deborah Strozier )

Shivers of sea the wind,
warmth of flattered caresses,
sweeps a crystal sky,
a cup of clear light;
playful white wings
sailing light waves;
four seagulls on the shore
shrieks remote tales;
children's ringing voices
resound from innocent play.

Elsewhere...

dreadful, straight down, from the sky,
death rumbling falls:
in the smoke, scraps of limbs.
Dust of rubble and blood
carry away unaware lives.
Buried: bank strategies,
ambitious plans of gain,
anxiety of surprised stock-markets...
Mad a world bursts,
weakened it flinches,
showers abuses on
other unknown powers,
eager for vengeance and blood.
In the bundle of poverty
an entire people terrified escaping,
dragging drops of sweat and blood
in fear shivering.

The man wounded in his heart
remains dumb and alone;
blind, confused, unconscious,
new hopes flounders.
The History, motionless stone,
stammers indistinct admonitions.