TO THE SOUTH OF THINGS

In silence
we come back
where the sea,
in winter,
has dirty colours
of sand and salt,
and frothy waves,
that dim one’s glasses,
moved by an African wind
full of dust.

From the windows
we arrive
to the South,
where a mother wastes
her youth
by a fireplace,
and a baby cries
at the slow
and heavy sound
of the bells.

Where prayers
are long murmurs
wrapped in black shawls.

Where life is silence,
and death, a fault.

Where smile
is the sin of a wrinkle,
and weeping,
beads of sweat in the fields.

Thus
we come back to the South,
to the south of things,
where love is mute
and given only to the Saints.

(translated by Giuseppe Villella)

from “To The South of Things” – Thunder Bay, 2013