Untitled poem about Italy (after Dante)

Val d'Orcia, Tuscany, 25 September 2022 

Even in this golden and sun-stained land,

Drunk and drenched in antiquity,

The violence of history suffocates me.

What is this place if not a mirage, age

Upon age of hatreds piled, a crooked

Spire erupting in space? Nothing new

Can flower here.

                                If I could draw water 

From this rock, if I could endow this dust

With life, this discontent might be redeemed.

This will never come to be.

The sky, the sun, are much too vast to care

For the miserable strivings of men.

As soon as I speak I know it is done.

I cry and I rage but nothing else comes.

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