It's the light of the sun,
and not the wind
what is bending the reeds
in this suburb, besieged
by German made plates:
they are going to win
all the battles, like usual,
and the arrogant stench
of the oil-burning bivouacs
is invading the walls:
but life, wins the last battle.
and the light of the sun
after thousands of years,
still will bend the reeds
with the excuse of the wind