(omaggio a mio padre)

Straight and strict,
from the hills raises
dark the cypress,
tenacious, attentive,
never tired keeper
of rich and modest cottages
of white small churches,
of remote villages of deads.
Under the sun,
under the rains,
under the snow
fairless stands;
only the wind, the storm,
waves and troubles
its green dark
pointed trunk;
only the thunderbolt,
yellow angry fire,
can destroy it.
Vainly then will search
small houses,
small churches,
deads villages,
their faithful keeper.
Only an horrible burnt stump
still stay, silent.