Only a spark of fragility
can free from this dance of darkness,
from the frenzy of this world
of engines and wars,
which gets excited
and proud
of grief and tears.
 
Only fragility
can give hope
in this miserable night of the soul
where peace is but rest
(after the slaughter),
awful is death
(but only of one's mates),
 
enticing the looks of those
who with intoxicating persuasiveness
reassure us, soothe us leading us,
survivors,
along the last stretch of the road
(to our final ruin and massacre).
 

 
"I breed pigs
- the man says to me -
I have just come back home to rest.
I'll start shooting again later"-
 
"I didn't hear anything
- the woman candidly confesses, -
I take so many sleeping pills!
In spite of the bombing I have just woken up".
 
I look out of the window.
There is what is left of a soldier in a farmyard:
a foot, a sock...
a cut-off leg...