Ermenegildo Tiraboschi
Poeta que considera el portal su segunda casa
In streams of tears and ash where flesh once grew,
Plutonium clouds ascend. Our loudest curse
Arrives, and only Death shall spring anew
While all our dreams and seeds in Hell disperse.
Now, reason smolders, burned without delay,
No trace of beast or bird, no bud or blade,
A bloodless sea of death whose surf is grey
We are, the human touch a pungent fade.
That restless hate, its seeds were clad in dread,
Engulfing kin and foe, despair and home,
With eyeless gods of steel, the way of lead!
Let’s wade, us few, this cinder all alone,
And hope, something absurd, that there’s no tomb,
No loathing that mankind will soon exhume.
Plutonium clouds ascend. Our loudest curse
Arrives, and only Death shall spring anew
While all our dreams and seeds in Hell disperse.
Now, reason smolders, burned without delay,
No trace of beast or bird, no bud or blade,
A bloodless sea of death whose surf is grey
We are, the human touch a pungent fade.
That restless hate, its seeds were clad in dread,
Engulfing kin and foe, despair and home,
With eyeless gods of steel, the way of lead!
Let’s wade, us few, this cinder all alone,
And hope, something absurd, that there’s no tomb,
No loathing that mankind will soon exhume.
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