---

But you didn't saw the blaze
over this world so tired,
nor future life to sing
you felt on the threshold of time.

You died leaving to the press
a short deadly smile
your destiny was like a wave
which gentle laps on the sand
you were a passing cloud,
an elegant arabesque,
the angelus belll's ring,
the death before vulgarity.

You sang the love of the past times,
the pleasure of polite manners,
the elegance and decadence proper in a retro style,
the sweet boredom of the province,
the lovers tragedies
the sunny and melancholic Sundays in wait
for a phone's ring.
Tomorrow will be simple things
forever buried and Sunday's province
will have only your grave as a pillow
and will become a crowdy world
without your useless ragged-paper gentlemen.
A republic of science,
if freedom and tolerance,
of fast consumes and
hysterical gestures and false-tan faces.

Oh poet! The past is really dead
tomorrow shopping centres
will erase the Decò Villas of your dreams dress's in shade
your European dream
will sleep buried amid the roses
and will be forgot as a negligible sin.

But love will bloom in the heart
after such camouflage hate
for who obstinately refuses to appreciate and share
the joys of the new world,
the pleasure of flat level,
you died just in time to spare yourself this petty hell.

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