---

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.