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.

GOTHIC  HALLOWEEN POEMS