TormarancioThe barbed wire runs
around Tormarancio.
With the cicada’s wail
and the sigh of grass, the countryside
pushes against the wire.
No poplar branches
glistening green
after the storm; no jasmine
grows against the wall; on the windowsill
the rosemary stands withered still.
Where is the wheelwright, can you see him
pulling out of a bundle
of robinia or a big willow tree
hub and spokes and rim,
at the first turn the wheel begins to wobble!
Where is the cooper
who turns and calls to the night shadows
striking the barrel with his mallet blows!
Where is the ropemaker
who moves along the most secluded byway
like a crab, in the sun or in the marshlands
and the rope is born out of his hands