with foreign foot above the heart,
abandoned among the dead in the streets
hard ice on the grass , the lament
lamb of children, shouting black
mother who went to meet his son
crucified on a telegraph pole?
the branches of willows, by vote,
also hung our harps,
swayed slightly in the sad wind
April 25.
of fascism that always comes back stronger, masked in his white collar. Memory that falters, gone now shared experience (which is too old and tired of talking to those who do not have time to listen).
resistance. I remember the Greek population of Dominikon . In 150, February 16, 1943, were slain by the cruel retaliation to Italian Greek struggle for liberation.
It was also resistance to Reggio Emilia , July 1960, resistance to fascism was looking for, even back then, customs clearance.
The road to freedom is paved with martyrs. Palestinians are well aware and their endless resistance to the annihilation.
few words here. It will run a lot further. But I want to publish two poems: Quasimodo, in the matter, the branches of willows and Giulio Stocchi the Palestinian tragedy, the mother .
The poem is resistance. The decline of the world. Opposes any wall, each of the possible divisions, with the power of the word. The oppressors are never poets.
Ah
son son son
I'll take you in his arms
and that your son
years, I weigh like three swords of absence
son to hurt my heart broken
You got that because I no longer see your smile
spring
son and gently take shape
the fabric of the promised day
son son
that You got to let me
torn between the nodes of the night without sleeping suit and
that child for nine months we spoke
you trust
your secrets and I
water the earth's future son
that everything around is
fire and rubble and smoke and screams
son for thee
arms
ahi son son
son and three swords in my heart no
Why the silence that settles on your lips like a butterfly
frost?
And your eyes looking so far
tell me which eternal minutes
are they pursuing?
Dead!
Dead!
Dead! My baby
my joy
my hope that he was born as a baby but
tree to grow to the sky to see and to know
and according to his destiny to go through the streets of the world
my baby look
look at my baby and his life
scattered in the dust with all its treasures
Dead!
Dead!
Dead!
Give me hunger and claws and wings
give me give me the wind storm and the cry
give me thorns and brambles
gimme gimme gimme
glass and metal knives and nails
give me give me everything that rips
give me everything Give me everything that bites
tearing and ripping teeth and give me give me
nails that wherever he may pursue
and tear and bleed
and devouring beasts
that from the bottom of the night they took my baby forever
Dead!
Dead!
Dead! With the split
front of my child go down
Palestine
come down and his hands like two doves off
ash
come down with his eyes fixed
get off my baby's clothing throughout Palestine
the shadow of his death
and injuries which forced him to come down to die
go down the endless steps, Palestine
come down to the place where the pain
is a single river with two knives and flames
E those on shore leave
piety and standing in the midst of the earth
back back back
Palestine with the fire that burns and destroys
back and without mercy
back standing in the middle of the back ground
Palestine and all the roots of fire
fire fire fire
and I cry because the child I had my baby
my joy
my hope now is dead
look
me that they killed and died
dead dead!
But where?
Where?
Where?
population of stars and
rifle and my son where?
people return and
steps and my son where is he?
my people that never dies
and my son where is he? Walking
walking walking shadow regions
to the infinite light
ahead
walking from exile to horizon
walking and fate reason
walking with the living and walking all
walking with the dead left behind because nobody
walking walking
Yes
my son who no longer feel
you go walking with amazing
still in the eye of the world
You got that and I left
not get tired carrying your weight on the arms
to go walking the ends of the earth that always belongs to us
Only then
the foot of the olive trees overlooking the river
only then
my son who no longer see you lay
kissing in front of and beside all your questions
because the grass
the tree flowers and birds
you ever meet with the alphabet
their innumerable wind
Listen
Gaetano Liguori. Cantata Rossa Tall El Zaatar , Radio Popolare
Images
Muro dividing Israel and Palestine
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