THE PAST - Libero Altomare

Sleepy old carillon

evoking once again among faded tapestries

and the fetor of withered chrysanthemums

naive epics of distant epochs.

Tearful bigot mumbling your rosary

of regrets,

candle eternally guttering

at the bier of lost days,

grotesque, streaked motion-picture film

fluttering on the screen of memory.

Poor, shattered mirror, whose glint

of splintered reminiscences

we catch from time to time,

like a lure we grasp at with ape-like gestures,

the arabesque of some dream that had furrowed our brow.


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