I've translated The march of the compasses by the excellent poetry master Davide Ghiorsi

I've known the excellent poetry master Davide Ghiorsi reading one of his poems.
I’ve translated it, yesterday!
You can find the original content here:

http://davideghiorsi.scrivere.info/index.php?poesia=394699%20&t=La+marcia+dei+compassi

I remember when they put out the moon
with dirty water droplets above the glass
we were ink between open notebooks
with pages that only went back.
Then errors and stains at the shape of uniform
they ripped out the sentences out of the paper
leaving the white sheets lifeless because without word it is certain death.

So there was the march of the compasses
that shattered drawers and desks
and I did not understand with empty eyes
because they also raped the poems.

Then I distended the pages and the hands
scrunched up to beg forgiveness
there's no evil which is bigger
than to deprive another man of the word

I found myself in unknown books
made of nasty lines and scribbles
immense reticulates of asterisks
brackets ash's in the eyes

Writing is something we have inside
to which they can not give burial
and there is no fist or blade of government
that can kill culture anymore.

So if the compasses will come back
to break crystals and take away
they will find us ready to give them
blows of novels and poetry.

This translation is by Maria Valentina Mancosu

Photo by Matt Artz on Unsplash