Here we are, at last. Here the Tiber dies.
blond river, long ago, as the corn
growing on the gentle hills around Rome,
flowing under an endless blue sky
of hopes, of sacrifices and virtues,
and blond was the hair of the centurion
on guard duty at the door of the camp,
and at Rome's law: and now it's flowing,
muddy menses from concrete bellies,
smelling dish soaps and corpses of pushers,
up to wrinkle everybody's skin:
and, on the dock, homeland of craven rusts
that bartered the saline pure waves
for a quiet death in this sewer,
the absurd son of an absurd country:
a gate, closed in front of the sea.
maybe they feared that when people come
at the last terminal of this smelly drain,
they could range their sights too far away
and sniff too much the smell of freedom?
a wall, that's what they really needed:
the sea, so large, so lacking in gates and jails,
is a bad symbol: a wall whould have been better,
to prevent even the sight of the sea:
as a matter of fact, that sail, now pregnant
with uncertain wind and foolish hopes
that's cutting the floods northbound,
may still be seen by everyone: a mistake!
i could even wonder where it's heading to,
in a day and a night, don't you think so?
that boat can reach its final destination,
and in a free country, in addition!