lunedì 2 marzo 2020

The Scarecrow

by Sandro D. Fossemò
Translated   by   Rita Guardiani

(Translated from Italian to English)

A spirit looks after the hill
towering  the orange pumpkins.

At nightfall,
the moon is above the clouds
like a hostile planet.

The scarecrow 
dominates the autumn
in  the rushing wind, 
that shakes the deadwood
and  wails around among the ruins
of ancient villas.

The fallen leaves dance lifeless
before a crumbling window,
which frames a solitary    
 garden keeper.

A  glass shard in the cobweb
mirrors a skull,
with a wide straw hat.

Hidden barren bones
in a red vintage jacket,
torn apart  on its rib.

In the night bowels,
a crow lies near its shoulder.
It gazes with its shining black eyes
                         a nest hidden in its  orbital cavity.                         
Tiny and innocent creatures,  
unaware of the imminent death.

Riled by the sudden rain,
the unclean bird 
heads out towards hell.
From the abyss of firmament,
the crow crakes with 
its coarse voice:
 "Tomorrow, tomorrow!".

On the dripping branches,
the leaves cry beside the scarecrow,
that forever lies
on the wooden cross,
rooted in the heart of the storm.


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