giovedì 1 giugno 2017

Through the Mist©

    

DI FRANCIS NORLEIGH©, 27.05.2017


Il ragno è morto in guerra, foto Mary Blindflowers©

I am aware, we shouldn’t have been there that very day,
amongst the troubled, rainy beauty
of that ancient, yet so modern city.
We shouldn’t have waited, at the bus stop 
with faces so pleased as if we really deserved
the love and the journey, the benevolent eye
of the strangers sitting in the gardens.
 
The pain was everywhere, men and women
were dying of strange diseases
because of endless wars
or simply by accident.
Children became ill, while we were having our coffee
on dumps, looking for food.
They were playing on poisonous fields, dying of hunger
while we pondered on what chocolate to choose.
 
But if we had stayed at home,
if we had not eaten, would have the day been less cruel?
If we had not wasted our water,
would have there been less dead of thirst?
If we had shown mercy would have we moved the killers?
 
We too had our burden, believe me: our shadow
was a long series of endless mistakes,
broken romances and sorrows
like those things we did not comprehend.
We were not mean people:
in the evening, before going to sleep
I always read my favorite poets,
she kissed me goodnight.
We had a perfect excuse

to forget about our unhappiness.

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