Parlando del naufragio della London Valour [English translation]

The seamen are digesting coca leaves on deck,

the captain has a lover ‘round his neck,

just in from England.

The confectioner of Via Roma is descending the stairs,

every dozen steps he finds a hand to step on.

He has a toy whip under his tea coat.

And the radio on board is a crystal sphere,

it says the wind will becomee a wolf,

the sea will become a jackal.

The paraplegic holds in his pocket a little bird, cobalt blue.

He laughs with his eyes, at the Togni Circus,

when the acrobat fails his leap.

And the anchors lost the bet and their hold,

the seamen, seagull eggs, rained on the rocks.

The Methodist poet has rose thorns in his paws

to make peace with the acclaim, to feel more distant,

his star eclipsed

ever since he won the weightlifting contest.

And with a tongue click,

the cable parts from the bank,

steals the captain’s lover, entangling her waist.

The butcher, hands of silk,

gave himself a battle name.

He keeps, swaddled inside the refrigerator,

nine antiwar jawbones.

He has a bulletproof apron

between his newspaper and his vest.

And the confectioner and the poet

and the paraplegic and his blanket

met again on the dock,

with crossword puzzle smiles,

to nurse like a drink the captain

who shot himself in the eyes,

and by afternoon to forget him

with his pipes and his chessmen,

and they smelled secret agreements

in the innuendos and in the actions

against every kind of shipwreck or other revolutions.

And the butcher, hands of silk, handed out the munitions.