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Cos’è un haiku?
Del magma di pensieri
un distillato.
Sola, in silenzio,
mentre faccio lo shampoo,
coltivo haiku.
Sono distrutta
quando sento il dolore
soffiare sul mondo.
Se piango spesso
quando leggo il dolore,
sono un po’ scema?
Erebuni
da antica fortezza
muri e cespugli.
Aridi fiori,
pochi muri sbrecciati.
Gloria passata.
Di tanti morti,
Collina
delle Rondini,
serbi memoria.
Spenti a migliaia,
dispersi nel deserto,
abbiate pace.
E’ scudisciata
la memoria di Auschwitz,
nome tagliente.
Il cielo grigio
sulla vasta pianura
non è pietoso.
Il lungo treno
a quel binario morto
vomita morti.
Grida e lamenti
lungo la judenrampe
e poi, silenzio.
Sulla banchina
montagne di valigie
Poveri averi.
Fumo maligno
che su tutto gravava
era accoglienza.
Stivali lucidi,
meridiana di morte
un breve cenno.
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What is an haiku?
From a jumble of thoughts
it’s a distillate.
Alone, in the silence,
while I’m washing my hair,
raising my haikus.
I am grief-stricken
when I feel the suffering
blowing on the world.
If I often cry
when I read about the pain,
am I stupid?
Erebuni
from the ancient fortress
is walls and bushes.
Some dried flowers
among a few breached walls.
That’s the past glory.
Of many dead men,
you, the Hill of the Swallows,
keep the memory.
A thousand have died,
someone lost in the desert,
may you rest in peace.
It is lashed
the memory
of Auschwitz,
a harsh name.
The grey sky
on the vast plain
is not merciful.
The long train
at the dead-end-line
vomits corpses.
Screams and moans
along the Judenrampe
and then,
silence.
On the dock
mountains of suitcases.
Poor belongings.
The nasty smoke
which was blowing everywhere
was their welcome.
Shiny boots,
meridian of death
a little sign.
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What is an haiku?
From a jumble of thoughts
it’s a distillate.
Alone, in the silence,
while I’m washing my hair,
raising my haikus.
I am grief-stricken
when I feel the suffering
blowing on the world.
If I often cry
when I read about the pain,
am I stupid?
Erebuni
from the ancient fortress
is walls and bushes.
Some dried flowers
among a few breached walls.
That’s the past glory.
Of many dead men,
you, the Hill of the Swallows,
keep the memory.
A thousand have died,
someone lost in the desert,
may you rest in peace.
It is lashed
the memory
of Auschwitz,
a harsh name.
The grey sky
on the vast plain
is not merciful.
The long train
at the dead-end-line
vomits corpses.
Screams and moans
along the Judenrampe
and then,
silence.
On the dock
mountains of suitcases.
Poor belongings.
The nasty smoke
which was blowing everywhere
was their welcome.
Shiny boots,
meridian of death
a little sign.
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