(Cont.d)the wind outside
while sweeping the tempest away
screams at the lost world: let him die, let him die!
Full of terror,
with trembling voice and heaving chest,
breathless for the many sobs,
I say to you, yelling,
“What are you thinking of? You too
want to forsake this ancient ugly world?”
Or maybe you’re listening
(desert and snow, more snow and, in the desert,
voices of animals or living beings?)
to those poor souls
left dying in the sulphur mines,
bound tightly by chains, like dogs.
And every minute
that passes seems a century, each blow
of the pick axe a nail in their coffin.
And in the open fields,
alone following your holy law,
an old man, who’s as great as Elijah,
a wealthy man, ─ a count ─