Poems

My Grandfather - Mio Nonno

[Eng]
My grandfather wished a well,
a deep well for drinking water,
so my mother always tells.
My grandfather was a soldier
in a country plagued by wars.
His own hands? They weren’t spotless,
but the choice he could have made
was his clan or someone else’s.
So my father, as he could,
he made up his mind and fled:
to choose not between his own
and the clan of someone else.

My grandfather wished a well,
water well for all the village.
But the water’s what he wished,
bitter tears of blood he shed.
No, no tears nor blood you drink.
So my father, as he could,
fled and crossed the desert dunes.
In the end, we lost no water!

That is why I cannot get,
why I wonder and can’t tell,
can it be that in a country,
an advanced, a “western” one,
a brave soldier cannot tell
the right choice he has to make?
All the more if the one at stake
is just someone else’s clan.
All the more if his own village
does not need a water’s well.

[Ita]
Mio nonno voleva scavare un pozzo,
un pozzo per l’acqua, mia madre così dice.
Mio nonno era stato militare
in un Paese che ha vissuto molte guerre.
Le sue mani? No, non erano pulite,
ma poteva scegliere: la sua famiglia,
o quella di un altro.
Perciò mio padre, potendo,
decise di fuggire. Per non dover scegliere
tra la propria famiglia
e quella di un altro.

Mio nonno voleva scavare un pozzo,
un pozzo per il villaggio.
Voleva dare acqua e piangeva
lacrime di sangue,
Né le une, né l’altro si bevono.
Perciò mio padre, potendo,
attraversò il deserto. Tanto,
non perdevamo certo l’acqua!

Perciò non capisco, m’interrogo e non capisco,
in un Paese democratico, avanzato, “occidentale”,
come possa un qualunque militare
non sapere qual è la scelta giusta da fare,
soprattutto se in gioco non c’è
la sua famiglia, ma solo quella di un altro.
Soprattutto se il villaggio non ha bisogno
di un altro pozzo per l’acqua.

This poem is also published on Medium.
It is an expression of my criticism toward the inhuman, genocidal behaviour of the IDF occupation forces on the Palestinian civilians.

Waking up in A Lie — Risveglio nella menzogna

[Eng]
I woke up. Beside me, my woman.
My first thought — I miss you —
shouts to my face the farce of my life.

[Ita]
Mi sveglio. Accanto, la mia donna.
La tua mancanza, il mio primo pensiero,
mi rinfaccia urlando la farsa della mia vita.

This poem is also published on Medium.

Moon - Luna

[Eng]
Bright eye in a dark night sky:
why do they say you keep watch over loving hearts
when my eyes watch you back, begging,
and she whom my heart longs for does still despise me?

[Ita]
Occhio brillante nell’oscuro ciel notturno:
perché dicon che riguardi i cuori amanti
se i miei occhi, rimirandoti, t’imploran
e colei che il cuor mio vuole ancor m’ignora?

[Esp]
Ojo brillante en el oscuro ciel de noche:
¿porqué dicen que proteges a los amantes
si mis ojos que, mirándote, te imploran
y ella que más quiero en mi vida aún me ignora?

[Nap]
Uocchio lucente ‘int’a ‘nu cielo scuro:
pecché diceno ca guarde ‘e core ‘e amante
assí ll’uocchie mije te guardano prijanno
e chi voglio ‘n sino a mme me va scaccianno?

This poem is also published on Medium.

To A Lesser Love

Back in another life
she had to fall for me.
You would have been more happy
if we had never met,
but now you know she lives
it’s clear we’ve been mere puppets
in the sadistic play
of a dyslexic fate.

She would not realize
she’s truly meant for me.
The bond was then denied
and I was then dismissed.
Yet I can still remember
me promising myself
“I’m waiting!”, I did not:
your allure had me caught.

Our union spent its flames,
its ashes barely smoke.
That ancient fire is raging,
which one were you to pick?
To which one would you heat
your aging, elder bones
when all we do is throwing
each other blames and stones?

You beg me not to go,
but I am not your own.
This childish, Western concept
that takes “marriage” for “love”:
a token of possession,
in place of willed affection
unasked and undeserved,
yet blissfully conferred.

A lesser love is not
the god that lives in me.
You could have had in plenty
if you’d asked not for it.
She shall have more than plenty
the time she’s back to me.
So, left with no nourishment,
that hearth consumes its home:
like a starving man-eater
that god feeds on my soul.

I’m set on dumping manners
and conduct rules alike:
accepted norms, conventions,
are little short to lies!
And lies, deceit, deception,
you don’t deserve from me,
nor I wish to keep hiding
that I belong to she.

It turns out I need money,
it always was too tight,
I need be self-sufficing,
it will be tough, but right.
We talked about divorce
but can afford no rent,
we are so Western-rich,
yet both are life-sentenced.

So I’m leaving, not for you,
as I am not your own.
My sentence may I choose,
to fate I make my plea:
despite I know full well
she’s not mine to possess,
that loving won’t suffice,
that she waits not for me,
I’ll live my hollow hell,
and love her full and free.

This poem is also published on Medium.