V

Piazza de Fiore

Hungarian fingers

were spelling out mimosas on my nape.

The windows had plump arms.

With golden spoons, the sky was having the broth

of the tiny alleys. Soprano fountains

were playing the city’s ‘Do.

Violin of yellow leaves,

the Tiber was opening the afternoon's peach.

On the day’s metallic surroundings

(the grinding of teeth of my sensations)

the sandpaper of goodbye was polishing

aeroplanes’ hooked nails.

Oh, the carnivorous smile of cities

which the lovers swing

on white public benches!

The farewell: a bird stuck

in an aluminium tear.

________

in Natália Correia’s «Motherland»

translated into Antonish by yours truly