Uomini persi
Anche chi dorme in un angolo pulcioso
coperto dai giornali le mani a cuscino
ha avuto un letto bianco da scalare e un filo
di luce accesa dalla stanza accanto
due piedi svelti e ballerini a dare calci al mare
nell'ultima estate da bambino
piccole giostre con tanta luce e poca gente
e un giro soltanto
anche questi altri strangolati da cravatte
che dentro la ventiquattrore portano la guerra
sono tornati con la cartella in braccio al vento
che spazza via le foglie del primo giorno di scuola
raggi di sole che allungavano i colori sugli ultimi giochi
tra i montarozzi di terra
e al davanzale di una casa senza balconi
due dita a pistola
anche quei pazzi che hanno sparato alle persone
bucandole come biglietti da annullare
hanno pensato che i morti li coprissero
perche' non prendessero freddo e il sonno fosse lieve
hanno guardato l'areoplano e poi l'imboccano
e son rimasti cosi' senza inghiottire e né sputare
su una stradina e quattro case in una palla di vetro
che a girarla viene giù la neve
anche questi cristi
caduti giù senza nome e senza croci
son stati marinai dietro gli occhiali storti e tristi
sulle barchette coi gusci delle noci
e dove sono i giorni di domani
le caramelle ciucciate nelle mani
di tutti gli uomini persi dal mondo
di tutti i cuori dispersi nel mondo
quelli che comprano la vita degli altri
vendendogli bustine e la peggiore delle vite
hanno scambiato figurine e segreti
con uno più grande ma prima doveva giurare
teste crollate nel sedile di dietro
sulle vie lunghe e clacksonanti del ritorno dalle gite
e un pò di febbre nei capelli ed una maglia
che non vuole passare
e i disperati che seminano bombe tra poveri corpi
come fossero vuoti a perdere come se fossero pupazzi
seduti sui calcagni han rovesciato sassi
e un mondo di formiche che scappava
le voci aspre delle madri che li chiamavano
sotto un quadrato di stelle dentro i cortili dei palazzi
e la famiglia a comprare il cappotto nuovo
e tutti intorno a dire come gli stava
anche questi occhi
fame di nascere per morir di fame
si son passati un dito di saliva sui ginocchi
e tutti dietro a un pallone in uno sciame
leggeri come stracci e dove fanno a botte
dov'è un papà che caccia via la notte
di tutti gli uomini persi dal mondo
di tutti i cuori dispersi nel mondo
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Lost
men
Even that guy who sleeps
in a corner full of fleas
covered with newspapers his own hands
bent in the shape of a pillow
has had a white bed to
climb, and a thread
of electric light coming
from the room near his own
Two feet which were fast
and dancing, and were kicking at the sea
In his own last summer as
a young boy
Little merry-go-rounds
with lots of lights and few people on board
And only one single round
to go.
Even these other ones,
strangled by their own ties,
who carry the war itself
in their briefcases,
they used to come back,
carrying their schoolbags flying in the wind
which swept away the
leaves from their first day of school
Sun beams which prolonged
the colors over
their last outdoor games
between the ground knolls
and, from the window sill
of a house with no balconies,
two fingers in the shape
of a pistol.
Even those crazy ones who
have gunned down all those people
making holes in them, as
if they were tickets to be stamped
They tought that the dead
ones would’ve covered them
to keep them from getting
cold, and to grant them a sweet sleep
They looked at the plane
and now they enter it
And they stayed that way,
without either gulping or spitting
in a little street, and
just four houses enclosed in a ball made of glass
which has snow coming
down when you roll it around
Even those Christs
who fell down without a
name and without a cross
they have been sailors,
behind their bent and sad-looking spectacles
on their little boats
made with nutshells
And where are the days of
tomorrow
the sticky caramels
clutched in the hands
of all the lost men of the world
of all the lost hearts in the world
Those ones who buy the
other people’s lives
by selling them little
envelopes and the worst life ever possible
They have exchanged
sports cards and secrets
with an older boy, but he
had to swear first.
Heads dropped there in
the backseat
On those long ways back
home from some excursion, resounding with car horns
And a bit of a fever
between their hair, and a sweater
which never fits.
And the desperate ones
who sow bombs between poor bodies
as if they were empty
bottles
as if they were rag dolls
Sitting then on their
heels, they have lifted some stone
and a whole world of ants
was running away.
The shriek voices of
their mothers were calling them
under a square of stars,
inside the playgrounds of the tenement houses
And the family had just
bought a new coat
and everyone was around
him, telling how it looked on him
Even those eyes
Hunger of being born to
end up dieing of starvation
They smeared with their
finger some spit over their knees
and everyone was after a
soccer ball, like a swarm
As weightless as rags,
and where do they have fistfights now?
Where is now a daddy who
chases away the night
of all the lost men of the world
of all the lost hearts in the world
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