Of the puff of dust rising
between the forsythia and the cars,
of this rainy air, of these deads
at the television,
call of crows, ambulance
no one reassure us.
Of the devastated small bar, of a woman
hugging her doberman, here, in the shade
of the portal – for their better, for their worse –
we have lost the measure.
Faces, broken bottles, flowering branches:
the sea we swim in falls into our bottomless eyes.
Yet when they call me
I still face – see? –And I answer.
Umberto Fiori (Italia, 1949, from La bella vista, 2002, Marcos Y Marcos, translated by Slow Words)