PoeticHouse - Il Portale dei Poeti e della Poesia
Pubblicata il 30/10/2023
There's an electric tram, climbing up
and going down the hills of Lisbon,
it moves very slowly,, sluggish and lazy,
just like this sleepy and silent Country
made of old men dozen against the walls,
leaning on the wood of their sticks:
it bears he number twenty-eight, and is immortal,
restored even in the wood of its benches,
bolt by bolt, plate by plate,
with the native and maniacal tenacity
typical of the nations that won't leave
their roots to face the running ahead world.
the tram grazes the ancient cathedral,
which gathered the crowds wounded
by the quakes, and by the black death,
imploring mercy from God.
it grazes then the abominable palace,
a place of terror, death and tortures,
where the tyrant's cutthroroats raped people
with the atrocious pleasure of the devil.
at last, the tram arrives to an esplanade,
always slowly, without bustling too much,
and leaves you in front of the Miradouro
de Santa Luzia, where the azulejos*
colored in the same blue of Paradise,
comfort the Lusitans, hardly graved
by the too many afflictions of History.
what a pleasure to let your glance wander
over the snow-white ancient houses
sloping down the hills up to the Tejo,
descending through narrow and meandering stairs
and lanes, where common people families
let little sea snais purge in trays,
before being cooked by bewitched hands.
besides that, there are the granmas, sitting
on the throne of their wisdom, out of their houses,
whose smiles put the weight of the years to flight,
so that the grateful stranger reciprocates,
his soul fully seeduced.
how magical is this Nation pushed off
by the hostile hands of Europe
towards the swollen fury of the Ocean,
in a perennial unstable balance
between Earth's restness and fear,
where steel-willed men put their feet
upon the neck of the Unknown, discovering
the hidden marvels of a charming planet.

* azulejos: blue tiles, with very elegant drawings
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