Translated from the Italian by Elena Buia Rutt 

Image used for representation.

The Downpour 

In the morning no light penetrated through the shutters
the sky was looming dark
We went out with our mackintoshes but to no avail
Then the rain immediately violent after lunch against the windows
but he was safe under the blankets with his dose of oxygen
I watched the weather in transparency
and reflected on the fact that it can be merciful
as long as you feed it with signs of submission.

Rain and Pomegranate 

The rain tapping touches the street
like the seed detached from the pomegranate fruit.

Evil Within Evil 

He was convalescing inside a worldwide evil
Stripes all at equal distance on his shirt
Stripes of rain outside the window
Scratches on the watch glass
Everything was focused on voids
Everything was cadenced on virtue
Everything, more unreachable than ever
The chemist’s red cross performed
the same kung-fu moves endlessly.

In The Bookshop 

The face mask crushes my feelings
it re-attaches my breath as soon as it comes out
at least in the bookshop, I’d like to read with my face free
just from my nose and mouth
my glasses steam up
my back leans against a crystal wall
the letters meander not imprinting themselves on my mind
the articulation of a full breath is missing. 

The Aqueducts Park 

The arches once intact
now partly covered with earth
reinforced by cement
surrounded by brambles
reduced to scattered ruins
no longer carry water
A boy walks along the path
articulating loud and dry sounds
His father with a face mask on his arm
follows him without being seen. 

The Windows 

The windows reveal the city to us
when the sun has set
Many reflect the dark light of the TV
Those that light up all of a sudden
Those in a row of the offices dead
The city does not live where one doesn’t sleep. 

Yoga Onto The Courtyard 

In the courtyard, a cat in love
then a seagull’s cry
glass from bottles against each other
a transporter’s whistle
the Santa Maria Maggiore bell tower
tolling the hours and half-hours
in the silence of three doing yoga
and the cold from the open window. 

The Internal Terrace 

One summer evening, in the courtyard, a hoarse and mature
voice with a marked southern accent
said on the phone that when you came back to me
you actually didn’t tell me you loved me
empty the cage with the parakeets of the year
before only the mute vegetation grew around
the only internal terrace and without their
chirping cover every word of hers
stood out enhanced by the echo of the courtyard.

Also, read a Togolese play by Kokouvi Dzifa Galley, translated into English by Dodzi Edem Amenyo, and published in The Antonym:

A Togolese Play— Kokouvi Dzifa Galley

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