I am a poet, a unanimous
cry, am
a cleat of dreams

a fruit
of innumerable conflicting grafts
ripened in the hothouse

But the same earth bears
your people
as carries me

Italy

In this, the uniform
of your soldier, I rest
as if
it were the cradle
of my father

Cease murdering the dead.
If you hope not to perish, if you
Want sound of them again,
Stop crying out, cease
The crying out of it.

They have a barely heard whispering,
No more than the increase of grass,
Happy where no man passes.