I am visiting the ruins of Ilion
after three thousand and three hundred years:
what an emotion, what an immense thunder
is shaking my body with my mind,
and the ghosts of Hector and Achilles
invade me soon, at the Scaean Doors,
and the warm larms of Andromache
salty, wash the wounds of my soul,
made calloused by the passage of time
and by the wild promotional spots.
today, it is possible to kill
much more comfortably, it is enough
a pressure of few grams on a trigger:
"Oh, Hercules, it's dead the valor of men"