There is still the wind that I remember <br />firing the manes of horses, racing, <br />slanting, across the plains, <br />the wind that stains and scours the sandstone, <br /> <br /> and the heart of gloomy columns, telamons, <br /> overthrown in the grass. Spirit of the ancients, grey <br /> <br />with rancour, return on the wind, <br />breathe in that feather-light moss <br />that covers those giants, hurled down by heaven. <br />How alone in the space that’s still yours! <br />And greater, your pain, if you hear, once more, <br />the sound that moves, far off, towards the sea, <br />where Hesperus streaks the sky with morning: <br />the jew’s-harp vibrates <br />in the waggoner’s mouth <br />as he climbs the hill of moonlight, slow, <br />in the murmur of Saracen olive trees.<br /><br />Salvatore Quasimodo<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/street-in-agrigentum/
