OUR PIT

 

Our pit is full of progress, of the burdensome

need to pray and nonetheless of the inability

to address yourself to someone not even to a dog

and then the other need to fling yourself

to the ground biting the dust furiously

and pouring out your rage or the negative

religiosity of your flesh. From under the earth

in depth you hear a whole hum of centuries

that sinks almost as deep as the last night’s

darkness. Ah, life so old and so stubborn

looking indifferently at people daily strangled,

liquidated in millions of manners ‒ we are all

sentenced to death, I’m thinking about my

parents maybe always it’s also the fear

maybe from the very start she’s poisoned

the joy that was given to the only animal

that knows he’s mortal he’s not eternal.

Maybe the world could have been as simple

as the sky, as the sea and still watching her

shapes that aren’t in front of me except

for those of an abandoned, condemned

village, this city like a roofless latrine.

It may be possible that She, the life, the world

make me forgive the ambitions me incessantly

crushed, the cannibals becoming inflated

with flesh and blood over our daily shared

pit so that an easy end erase the ages

and their shadows of poverty, of misery,

of disgust ‒ so that a heyday send us to sleep

on the shame of our fatal awkwardness,

in the pit.      

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