translated by Brandon Brown

so I came to the days of the Resistance

I didn’t know anything but style

it was a style made totally of light

memorable recognition

of sun. It could never fade

not even for an instant

even as Europe trembled

on its deadliest evening

we escaped from Casarsa

with our stuff in a cart

to a ruined village

among canals and vineyards it was pure light

my brother left, it was a mute morning

March, in a train, disguised

his pistol in a book it was pure light

he lived a long time in the mountains

which shone like paradise in the blue gloom

of Friulian plains it was pure light

in the attic of our farmhouse my mother

always stared at those mountains

hopeless, she saw the future it was pure light

with a few poor people I lived

a glorious life, persecuted

by despicable rhetoric it was pure light

the day of death came

Independence Day, the martyred world

knew itself again in the light…

the light was the thought of justice

I didn’t know what kind of justice

all light equal to all other light

then it changed, the light like an uncertain morning

a waxing dawn that spread all over

Friulian fields and canals

struggling workers in the light

the rising dawn was a light I mean

beyond the eternity of style

in history, justice has been

the realization of a humane

distribution of money, hope

maybe, brighter than that

new light