by Guido Monte
translated by Adele Ward
when i wake in the morning
walcott is my homeric hero,
and the caribbean my promised land
even if i have never been there,
they are in my mind
among white almonds,
the islands' bays
happy and without pain,
epic gods who sail
the sea for fun,
the smiles of the poor islanders
are gifts of the dead,
the slaves
have been liberated.
it is already lunchtime but
the shade of
alda merini buzzes the entryphone
claiming to be
an angel of sickness,
she comes up and shows scars,
pill-poisons and photos
of abandoned animals,
she asks me quietly
why so many creatures
have asked her for a way to die
as quickly as possible, just so,
without thinking.
at night i turn on the lamp
on my table and browse
poems by pasternak, poems
of silence and snow,
from a time already old,
that is passing, of rooftops
in winter, and pavements,
of a branch in blossom,
the last one in a white night.
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