Genova, smashed by the sea, seems to search
breath offshore, toward the horizon.
Genova, republican heart, salty wind,
strong soul.
Genova losts itself in the center in the labyrinthine old streets*
ancient and new words shot in shots as from muskets.
Genova, that July day, a scorching heat
of Black Africa.
Ball of sun plumb, roar of people, tense atmosphere.
Black or blue the uniform, the precise orders, sweat and anger;
faces and shields as Hoplites, the hate inside like a scab.
But a little further, a pensioner and an old dog
look at an airplane that was slowly staining the sea;
a voice breaks the ecstatic scream of children.
Clothes hanging in the sun, as a hoax, in the gardens.
Exit home at twenty is almost an obligation, almost a duty
pleasure of meeting in bunches, identical ideals, to be and to have
the large crowd calls, songs and colours, screams and moves on,
challenges the relentless sun, almost incredible dance step.
Genova closed by bars, Genova suffers as in prison,
Genova sharped at view waits a liberation blow.
Inside the offices cool men discuss strategy
and hot men explode a rap, death and madness.
It breaks down the time and the moment, for an instant, remains suspended,
hanging in the dark and nothing, then the absurd video back on;
puppets move, looking alibi for those lives
dissipated and dispersed in the bitter smell of cordite.
Genova doesn't know anything yet, is dying slowly, fire and noise
but as that one young life extinguished, Genoa dies.
How many days hate will strike again in full hands.
Genova responds to the port with the high scream of sirens.
Then everything starts like every day and who has the right
I say noble men, give relentless justification,
as there was a way, just one, to bring back
a life cut short, a lifetime to imagine.
Genova has not forgotten because it is hard to forget,
there is traffic, sea and dancing accent and alleys to walk.
Lanterna looks impassively for centuries the rocks and wave.
Returns as always, almost normal, square Alimonda.
The "salvia splendens" glitters, covering a triangular flowerbed,
traffic usually goes on flowing fast and irregular.
from the bar coffee and grappa, green newsstand sells life.
It remains, bitter and indelible, the trace of an open wound.