Trafika Europe 14 - Italian Piazza

Barbara Serdakowski

On tracera bien l’encre noire sur le papier encore vierge They will surely trace black ink on still-blank paper Le doigt suffira, les phalanges, les paumes. The finger will be enough, the phalanges, the palms.

Verse, verse tes larmes Muriel, mais ailleurs... Shed, shed your tears, Muriel, but elsewhere...

Here not even the rows of roof tiles for rain water are left. The overflowing sewers Expanded, epidemic in the branchial ducts Would we be in time to save ourselves from the sediment? To stem the mud, the pebbles, the corpses?

Rusted miles of wire to break Among evergreen leaves Flowers of tulle, or salt dough Werewolf and wet angels

By rains of slivers, cobwebs and forgotten prayers. On the cream-colored plaster the scars of time Green

and of indistinct hue Cracks and fissures Sundry shadows.

Regarde mes mains Thomas Look at my hands Thomas

Je n’ai plus aucun trou

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