“Where are the weapons? Come on, let’s
go, get them, in the haystacks, in the earth, / don’t you see that nothing has changed? / Those who were weeping still weep.
Those of you who have pure and innocent hearts, / go and speak in the middle of the slums, / in the housing projects of the poor,
who behind their walls and their alleys / hide the shameful plague, the passivity of those / who know they are cut off from the days of the future.
Those of you who have a heart / devoted to accursèd lucidity, / go into the factories and schools
to remind the people that nothing in these years has / changed the quality of knowing, eternal pretext, / sweet and useless form of Power, never of truth.
Those of you who obey an honest / old imperative of religion / go among the children who grow
with hearts empty of real passion, / to remind them that the new evil / is still and always the division of the world. Finally,
those of you to whom a sad accident of birth / in families without hope gave the thick shoulders, the curly / hair of the criminal, dark cheekbones, eyes without pity—
go, to start with, to the Crespis, to the Agnellis, / to the Vallettas, to the potentates of the companies / that brought Europe to the shores of the Po:
and for each of them comes the hour that has no / equal to what they have and what they hate. / Those who have stolen from the common good
precious capital and whom no law can / punish, well, then, go and tie them up with the rope / of massacres. At the end of the Piazzale Loreto
there are still, repainted, a few / gas pumps, red in the quiet / sunlight of the springtime that returns
with its destiny: “It is time to make it again a burial ground!”