Quaremma, the crazy widow
it was the girl with the old apron
whirled in the February whirlwind dangling from a rope on the road.
Targets of terrible children
experts in the sassaiola competitions:
they vented the anger of the black fathers for all the missed rains
and the grains were thin.
Covered with one of our cloaks
even the sky was far from us and I would have liked to see
what part did he play.
Behind the fence of the mountains
the breakers shrieked neighs in front of the Ionian Sea
and even the sun shone in our eyes a flickering shadow of a candle.
In the meantime, you can’t shut your mouth to the divine sprouts of the earth.
Outside the wind landslides on the doors is playing the rebel’s march,
but the almond trees have blossomed
they picket the crops,
the white knights of death.

(11 February 1948)

Read by Nicole

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