Verandahs of skyblue
A small lake of smoke inside the heart… Processions of sentences leave footwear of intelligence, before entering the mosque-shaped mouths.
The scents smile among masks made of leaves. And serpentine letters put on overcoats of light.
On the slopes of the lines
a flock of beams
hides the Ulysses of my inspiration.
Sultriness of joy, stink of mirth
in the cyclopean looks of day’s only eye. Bars of happiness
in the high notes of the sun
and, among verandahs of skyblue, I see scarecrows of poetry…
Wind’s tachycardia inflates the clothes: the wind, heart of the sky…
Around the sun, that resembles a stack of straw, clouds are like sheaves of light or huts of hay.
Festoons of air caught
on the bare trees (each one of the latter, to tell the truth,
shows itself to be an exact copy
of an upturned grape stalk).
The eyes are rags fallen down from nostalgia and lost among wandering wisps of cheerful weather.
Streamers of grass and rough declivities in the dead calm of the plain.
Fields in ruin and hillshacks. Country towns of sun.
Starting from the nonexistent yeast of azymous rocks,
villages climb up
rungs of light.
(Translated from Italian by Pietro Pàncamo)