At three in the afternoon,
A girl tumbling out of an unmade bed
Skirts juniper colored, she rushes out of the room
Sand in between her toes and in the creases of her knees,
She runs very fast
Towards what was once a prison yard.
She stops in a clump of rosebush and thorn,
Strips off her coat.
Through a hole in a brick wall
She leaps onto the stage Palladio made.
Above her, a ceiling where clouds drift.
Is that a ghostly horseman?
Clouds sift a future the gods painted
In scarlet and gold can scarcely comprehend.
Why search for the seven roads of Thebes?
There are fresh tragedies waiting for her.
A bitter wall of concrete cuts the sky
In its shadow a woman kneels
Eyes shut tight she sings
To a lad laid in the dirt
Bullet holes in his hands and feet:
In his wounds wild roses bloom.
Teatro Olimpico
