A small caravan in the periphery of the city
Here and there mounds of rags where children spring from
Fresh voices
Deep eyes
Fresche acque con le braccia tese verso l'oceano
Small bees intent on the game of life
A father grey like the sky in winter
Grey like the streets of the world
Large moustache to hide the bitterness of his lips
A bowed man seated in the periphery of the city
His gaze lost in the v
oid
The fire is spent
There is no pain in his gaze, only resignation
The holes in his shoes the wounds on his tongue
From the constant pilgrimage from the constant asking
Asking for a job
A meagre job to have the right to grow who in
Life still believes
No work for
the gypsy
Gypsy thief
Gypsy always tired
Gypsy tired of hypocritical words
The gaze lost in the void
His face scored with resignation
A woman a cypress struck by the wind
Translated by Katie Hepworth