O barbarian’s pupil-eye encircled
by the sun-born verdure of the Po!
Italy has only one morning of life,

In a filmy stench of slaughterhouse
I see the image of my body, half-naked,
ignored, almost dead. This is the way,

It isn’t May-like, this impure air
which darkens the foreigners’ dark
garden still more, then dazzles it