Far far away voices, wailing...
Must you always repeat the same scenes,
Trifles dispelled, roses in decay,
space broken down to the rare molecule or two,
it seems these proportions breed peace.
And before the nesting begins, the shrieking:
these mythical dead of yours will return,
opaque men bound to go homeless.
And meteorites of mental steel
spin over the continents, invade the force-fields of
drowsy roses, bend the frequencies of created objects,
make every atempt to be of help. The plane
skimming the cathedral tops make its attack,
rises, goes: it's not for us.
I lived here, where one night of reducing the century to ashes
persuades me and kills me off slowly and I tremble.
Franco Fortini, in Italian Poetry: 1950 to 1990, Ridinger and Renello (eds.), Dante University Press, 1996.