Christmas was coming
between distant and close sounds of merry bagpipes.
They flew far in the air
blown away by the wind
the last dry leaves
of poplars and chestnuts.
At the first light of a pale sun
we had left in peace
– following two opposite paths – headed to work.
Father had greeted me
kissing me on the forehead.
And I had seen him walk away
with a hurried, serene step.
He was going to meet destiny,
to the sad cruel fate.
And I saw him motionless
with eyes turned to heaven and gaunt face.
Livid, cold, silent.
Death had caught him with a crash.
Perhaps while he was thinking of his distant family,
to his little child.
The treacherous heart
had stopped beating
and life was gone
like a faint flame.
Christmas.
All around amidst fireworks and festive gunshots,
the bells tolled,
mystical and happy.
While in every heart was sweetness and joy, in the silent home
mother bent over the crib of the child who was sleeping peacefully, in a momentum of affection she had held him close to her heart.
From the shutters the wind whispered a slow refrain
while the tears repressed
now they gushed
from my red and tired pupils.
Giuseppe Carullo, The seasons of the poet
ANTONELLA CARULLO 