Let's Go!

IN THE WATERS OF THE ELBA

It’s blue
afternoon,
beside the Elba,
in the autumnest
autumn of them all.
Under my feet
the leaves,
so much height
and so much sky in them still.
Above me, the trees
in the space left
by the leaves,
now taken by wind
and the always serious
faces of men,
when winter comes
white and cold as an angel.
With its back to my heart
the cry is a song
its temple without laurels,
without entrance
in the flight of birds.
And before me,
in the world
of water,
in delicate daydreams
the linear figures
of your infinite forests
appear.
And your cities,
calm waves,
fragments of a distant
tenderness,
with afternoon lights
and no one in the night
to talk about
those far off countries
where the sun
is forever late.

A boat crosses
the water,
and from its heavy
length of smoke
one knows the sailors too
are sad.

One’s country turns kind and sweet
if one begins the remembering
adding the truth of being alone
to the truth of being away.
But in a musty café
where night does not arrive
one reads:
the suffering continues
the same as always.
And one understands
that a country is bitter
if it’s a prison
where man arrives
only to sadden the landscape.

Deep
in the water
the memory is born,
the birth of those lines.
Cities, buildings,
streets,
signs,
lakes,
paths and hope,
always hope.
Returning to
the water still cry
their endless teardrops of fish,
whose mark on the river
is so like that road
never moving far
from the depth of my chest,
and less when it’s autumn
and one reads in the paper
they’ve returned martial law
to the city of dawn,
only because she’s not resigned
to being the stranger’s prostitute
and lifts her rose in the hands
of her noblest sons,
and keeps on looking to the morning
waiting for her permanent tenderness
and liberties
to arrive.

Far away, on the Elba,
when the gulls
cross under the bridges,
the heart is sadder
if it spins in the wind and water
taking the place of a star
in the memory of a gentle madman.

It is autumn’s afternoon
beside the Elba,
and the age of the day
begins the night.
One understands, then
that all who walk
carry the end of their journey
on their brow.
And I get up, not from the bench
beside the water’s dark face,
in whose eyes this afternoon
I saw my sadness.
I get up, I say, from my own soul,
where you are always
country of deer
and moons,
and you will never burn out
if anywhere exists
the small tenderness of a blood
that raises its arms in search
of your soul,
mother my land.