Mine, the son, he didn’t belong to the war,
to the bosses who leave me weeping
behind the door like a dog; mine
belonged to my hands, to my sallow breast
where mothers dry up over the heart.
He belonged to me and to the sea
that washes our feet all life long,
to the black dress that blinds me
with dust if I cry out. Mine, the son,
he didn’t belong to the war,
didn’t belong to death, and the pity
I’m looking for is to wake with his name
all night long, to stop the trains
so he doesn’t leave, he who’s already gone
and won’t be coming back.
Mine, the son, and his death, mine, the war.
May horses run over my breast, and
the trains and the rivers he saw: may fire
burn my hair where only night
walks at my shoulder.
May the wind
remain with the hallucinated world, the salt
with the abysms that dazzle, the shroud
with our mourning…
La poesia resistente! Napolipoesia, 2010









