Trying to Write about Abruzzo's Earthquake
The poem travelled by car, crossed half Italy
all alone leaning its voice on crooked steeples,
echoing voices buried under tons of ruins.
It didn't ask for anything, not even words, arrived
without warning for it had the door key. Once inside,
it offered me a bowl with pebbles, bunches of flowers
dripping dust, bleeding hands frantically digging
and the solitude of an empty horizon.
My heart beat got fast, I searched my bag
for pen, paper, and found respectful silence.
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