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