The sky draws the curtains
as if ashamed
of its nakedness,
then starts to shout
like my mother
when I came home with a D in physics.
It opens its mouth
and hits a middle C,
like a tenor
contemptuous of silence.
It splits the city in two,
and the hearts of the weak.
Windows queue up
with their drums—
boom-boom, the rain
shatters on the panes;
its smell—traveller’s perfume—
is the new interpreter,
the voice the desperate need
to believe that
elsewhere
there is sun.
Then it all ends.
The curtain falls.
Applause.
Translated from Italian by Martina Maria Mancassola.
Martina Maria Mancassola (1992) is an Italian poet and therapeutic-writing facilitator. Author of Quando il mattino apre gli occhi (Eretica Edizioni, 2025). Her work appears in Altrove, Poeti Oggi, and is forthcoming in the Journal of Italian Translation(NYC, Nov 2025). She lives in Verona.