Bloom like dresses, the colors
yes, the colors, of lore and light
like the sky, immortal blue.
The streets of Calabria have
sheep, and like the earth caresses,
so do I.
The colors diffuse in the atmosphere,
asphalt. The flowers of your tree, the god tree, are
the universal language:
verrà la parole di verità
the words of truth will come,
wrote Maria Palmucci.
Yet I do not know if she is the Palmucci who
died at one hundred and nine, or nine.
She lived her life by a schedule,
practice lessons filling up her quaderno:
Orario settimanale delle lezioni.
Your face unreadable
lapses, or forgery.
Modern Rome is torn.
David is strong—the powerful song of his voice
like the eternal flower: campanella.
Italy was the defense of the insurrection
l’universale linguaggio dello