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Franco Cilli 1959 (Pescara)
Under the stem of the elm tree, caressed by greasy breezes of stingy remnants and smells of suburbia.
The sense of what.
The medals we display are ancient pledges of war,
of heroism and blood, over mosaic-paved roads on the way to Santiago.
Yet we loved the smell of gunpowder,
the giddy runs
And the nights spent drinking
And building women's fantasies.
I think of the sense of it all,
told in the novella of the usual Saturday,
all squeezed between the coils of cigarette smoke
And boredom from the morning sweat.
The evening finally we drink again,
anxieties slip into the shadows of sound,
the usual club,
haunted by greasy stares
And exaggeratedly shaggy, close-cropped hair.
Ikigai, the promise is renewed,
but time flows lightly through the mountain clouds
and the August journey to Catalonia.
We will meet again to count the years that are missing
And the needles pointed at the skin
Written on November 17, 2022
Submitted by franco.cilli59 on November 24, 2022
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 51 sec read
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|Closest metre||Iambic pentameter|
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Use the citation below to add this poem to your bibliography:
"Ikigai" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2023. Web. 8 Jun 2023. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/144800/ikigai>.
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