For Mario Cola
Will there be given the day to arrange the flowers?
Or to examine the voyages of seed?
O, who will defend the garden
When the tramontana snaps across the hills And turns the columns cold?
Now in the frosty afternoon
The cracks widen in the statue’s breast,
And the fresco sheds another century
That flakes and crumbles in the decayed forum.
The tourists, camera-mad on the Spanish steps,
Flee the squares, abandon the piazzas,
Racing due south or settling for home.
What’s left but travel inward,
When the tramontana blows,
For now roads lead away from Rome.
Will there be given the day to explore the trees?
Or to identify the heart?
O, who will prepare the spirit for the wind?
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