I have lost peasant slavery,
I will never have a happy glass again,
I have lost my freedom.
City of the long exile
of silence in a white point of roars,
I have to count my time
with tram rides,
I have to unpack my closed luggage,
regulate my tears, my smile.

Goodbye, how about goodbye? Broom expanses,
broad shoulders of the woods
that break the blue face of the sky,
oaks and turkey oaks brotherly in the wind,
sheep around the sleeping shepherd,
yellow and cut earth,
that you are the woman who gave birth,
and my brothers and the houses where they live and the paths where they go like swallows and women and my mother,
goodbye, how can I say goodbye to you?

I have lost my freedom:
in the July fair, as warm as the air he barely let the words get through,
two merchants bought me,
one took the lira and the other visited me.
I have lost peasant slavery of the heavy skies, of the oaks,
of the yellow and cropped earth.
The city appeared to me at night after all one day
that the train had sobbed,
and our moon was not there and there was no black table of the night
and the mountains were lost along the way.

(Rome, 1 July 1950)

Read by Ethan

Generated by Artificial Intelligence