future

So goodbye, a kiss

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It was a nest
Though now young heart encouraged and air brave
breaks stretched bonds of parents’ fearing
Home will always be

They will miss you, son, yes of course they will
They will miss you soon
Why else would they have changed your name?
As Don Chiciuco laughs across the border
waking you to another dream

Study! Study as we never did
Learn the world from inside and from out
Study with the social, learn the individual
See the seedling, the germ fast flowing in the blood

So goodbye, a kiss upon the cheek
Your world grows wider as ours contracts
Our future that of which we cannot speak
Learn how to remember – we have taught you how to act

For Matteo
Matera settembre 2018

E allora addio, un bacio

Era un nido
anche se ora il giovane cuore, incoraggiato e impavido come l’aria,
rompe la corda tesa dai timori dei genitori
sarà sempre casa

Loro sentiranno la tua mancanza, figlio, sì certo
sentiranno la tua mancanza subito
Altrimenti perché avrebbero cambiato il tuo nome?
Mentre Don Chiciuco ride al di là del confine
ti sveglia ad un nuovo sogno

Studia! Studia come noi non abbiamo mai fatto
Impara il mondo dal di dentro e dal di fuori
Studia con il sociale, impara l’individuale
Vedi il germoglio, il germe che scorre nel sangue

E allora addio, un bacio sulla guancia
il tuo mondo si espande mentre il nostro contrae
il nostro futuro, quello di cui non possiamo parlare
impara come ricordare, noi ti abbiamo insegnato come agire

Traduzione di Mariella e Matteo

Xylella

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The olive trees are dying and we must burn them, dry twigs, snapped branches, roots.

In the late-morning sun and the silence of the old men’s tears, the sound of axes. Hard hands are torn. Children watch from the shade, sparrows in the thorny oak.

For centuries the trees have given and now it seems an end. But we, green-hearted, hopeful, we shall plant again and our grandchildren shall harvest.

My summer is ending

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My summer is ending

and the red leaves shiver

before the fall.

 

My summer is ending

I see your spring arrive

fresh green from white.

 

My summer is ending

Your faces are sun-shot

sparkling futures.

 

And the sun and the warmth

of near cloudless sky

my summer is ending.

 

Many happy

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Some or many years ago of course my mum was there. Nine months earlier and the man they called my father had been too. Now both are disappeared, one too soon before the other, and the counting of the years wears thin.

The best thing remain the candles – if you forget the jokes about the fire risk and the firemen and now the fire service. Each candle stands for a memory, a year that has passed or a friend, and calmly shines its light into the future. The more candles on the cake, the brighter the light they cast, the better they show us what is to come.

Though, through fear, we may not want to know. So we blow out the candles and pinch out the stubs and blow away the memories and shade out the light. The future is arriving fast enough; I do not want to see it.

We walk away from our past

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We walk away from our past and memories pile up behind us, blocks and rocks and shards of bright stained glass. The rising-sun light lifts the colours of the memories and lays them flat in front of us, puddling and lakes and oceans toward the future horizon. We stride or stagger forward, ankle deep in colour.