Tuscany

Loneliness in ancient gardens
Wooden figures fleeting
Guardians guiding
Lost among mobile mountains
Whose goddesses possess
The hero

Long tile of tragicomedy
Spasmodic pulsing
Crossing threads of time
And space

Costumes hiding
The warning sounds
The opportunity passes
Decades are minutes to the century

Forced along inviolate paths
Muse’s acquiantance is the copper idol
Drunk, lonely and bored
These should be the sacraments
Feel the glory
Hurtling into fatal hatreds

Jostled
The stream misses, dodges and jumps

Foaming at the cusp
The oratorio is a stew
Unspoken threat of seized similarities

Mowed down soldiers
And rusting coffins
Graves of the conforming

Scattered bits
And remnants
Lay upon the half beating
Reaching for the thought fuel

Amazing translation

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