beyond the tears and fearsome expectations
beyond the floods and scratching violins
we hold our heads above the rising tides
at long last some form of peace we conquer
some form of peace we find
resistance
25 April
On the Day of Saint Mark
I send you blood-splashed red roses
The sun is bright
I am not blindfolded
Through your tears I pray for a tentative smile
In the mountains the people will never forget me
We have grown old
Invecchiati simu, frate.
Yes, you’re right. We have grown old apart
distant in distance and distant in time
but friendship is deeper than years.
We will always be brothers, brother;
our hands still hold the thin blade scars.
I see your face and you are your father
as he was when we were young
and ran and swam and threw stones at the sentries.
We will always be brothers, brother;
our heads still hold the baton scars.
And now we may be old my brother
and our bones
simonsalento 