The Elevator

When I go to paradise

let there be only one

bell, scented with rainwater

and with tiled roofs at dawn.

When I decide to go

to paradise, I will go

there in the elevator,

at night, of Castelletto,

stealing a little piece

of my eternal peace.

Dll go there stealing (perhaps

in my mouth) a few crumbs

of bread for my two little ones.

But the black light of the sea

will pulsate rhythmically

between my brows, and... . perhaps

(perhaps) on the terrace where

they're wearing dressing gowns,

among the stirred-up crowds

of boys (among maids bright

with life and with face powder

enjoying a free hour),

who knows, I might recognize

my mother in the lamplight.

With her I will turn to see

the white lights on the sea.

We'll stand at the iron railing,

alone and hand in hand,

betrothed, as we had never

been in all those years.

at night, of Castelletto,

stealing a little piece

of my eternal peace.

I will also steal a rose

that then, my tender spouse,

I will poison for you as you're

left behind on the ground floor,

saying softly to me, "So long,

write to me now and then,"

through the closing of the door

and the shudder of the glass

in the releasing of the brake.

And then will I be shaken

till I feel my heart will break,

my bitterest tears be shaken

down on the roofs, and aching

I will say, "Who can it be

who tolls that watery bell

cleansing the rainwater

without absolving me?"

On the ground, the brake giving

the glass a shiver, you'll stand

saying softly, "So long, write,"

vivid among the living

with the handkerchief in your hand,

timid inside your yearning,

I will see you, face upturning,

alone on the earth once more:

just as you were the day

I left you for the war.