PoeticHouse - Il Portale dei Poeti e della Poesia
Pubblicata il 22/09/2023
A "sixhundred and twenty-six",
squat, grandiose, square,
with its motor electric fans
dispersing the engines' heat
and letting out a dull bellow
like that of an ox pulling a wagon,
having behind itself
forty-two full freight wagons
as heavy as unwanted children:
before the large bend you must cross
a suburb with pink cottages,
dens for hungry working people,
and, furthermore, there's always the idiot
who crosses the tracks even when
the barriers are down.
this morning, however, on the top of the trench,
there is a little child in his mother's arms,
looking with his wide open eyes
at the "brown and isabel"-colored monster
and you, poor badly shaved christ,
sisyphus peeping out of the side window
the Spring flowing away without
ever being able to stop and love her :
that little child is really too cute
to let him go dragged away
by the blaspheme fury of the race;
your hand then runs on the control
of the whistle, to greet the child,
and to say him that you too have
a little boy with wide-open eyes
who's waiting for you at home
since two endless days, until
at the end of the shift, as God wills,
he will run towards you to hug you:
there aren't too many men like you
in the whole Europe, who prefer
to greet a child tnan to respect
the service regulations and their rules:
but you are the daddy of all the children
of the world: and Glory to you!
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