It’s not like May, this impure
air
that darkens the foreign garden
already dark, then blinds it
with light
with blinding clarity… this
sky
of foam, above the pale yellow
eaves
that in enormous semicircles
veil
the bends of the Tiber, the
deep blue
mountains of Latium… Spilling
a mortal
peace, estranged from our
destinies,
between the ancient walls,
autumnal
May. In this the grey of the
world,
the end of the decade in which
appears
among ruins the profound,
ingenuous
effort to restore life over;
the silence, rotten and
barren…
