(cont.d)That’s why, mother, I cannot bear to think
of those misshapen, twisted peasant hands
that clambered up like snakes or living flames
around the coffin, about to carry you
like a little girl huddled in her cradle
or a pack-saddle that totters and sways
back and forth, down the hill and up again,
and it peeps out as far as the last turn
amid the almond trees and hawthorn blossoms.
That’s why, mother, I can’t go in the house,
now that only wasps can be heard singing
in those blackish holes once nests of doves,
and bats crash with a thud against the walls,
but you don’t have a broom to chase them out
and in the rooms you don’t turn off the light
to let them see the moon within the window
or listen to the owl in the deep darkness.
(Translated by Luigi Bonaffini)