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They have given you French names
and made you captive, my rugged
troublesome compatriots;
your splendid beards, are epicene,
plaster white
and your angers
unclothed with Palestinian hills quite lost…
Dramatic poem by Angiolo Orvieto Music by Giacomo Orefice
I am exceedingly green: chill green.
What have I to do
with all the greenishness of chance?
I am the green-source, the green-self,
one and incomparable.
This year I traveled a long way
to view the silence of my city.
A baby calms down when you rock it, a city calms down
from the distance. I dwelled in longing. I played the hopscotch
of the four…