Il fischio si sparse,
come olio
sulla superficie delle cose.olio

Fosse stato inverno,
avremmo, mesti,
aperto scatole di pioggia,
rotto lastre di polvere
per scorgere abissi,
bassi di rose marce.

Fosse stato inverno,
saremmo stati stracciati
in solstizi sonori,
baciati da astri pallidi
e piangenti molli peani.

Il fischio cadde,
ruzzolò in frantumi mercuriali,
riflesse arcobaleni
con gamme di cenere
e roventi vestigia.

The whistle spread,
like oil 
on the surface of things.

Were it winter,
we would have 
opened boxes full of rain, 
broken sheets of dust
for glimpsing into shallow abysses 
of rotten roses.

Were it winter,
we would have been ripped
in loud solstices,
kissed by pale stars
crying tender songs.

The whistle fell,
tumbled down in mercurial pieces,
mirrored rainbows
with arrays of ashes
and scorching ruins.

Salvatore Minissale