This poem is like a wound to me,
because I want to talk about the Rome that has disappeared
And I can't understand
the one about history,
the Rome of the Empire, the Rome of glory.
But the Rome that sang stornelli,
or the satirical one of Gioacchino Belli
The Rome that spoke in Roman dialect,
shouting it through the streets of Trastevere and Testaccio
The irreverent Rome, the one that made fun of you,
the one that Trilussa told us with his poems
The Rome that removed a pebble from its shoe,
made Pasquino speak with the sharp tongue
The sleepy and lazy Rome of the "famous ones taking a nap"
or the pleasure-loving one of "Famous recipe from Sister Lella"
Because in Rome, maybe you could even skip work
But everyone, if there was something to laugh about, drinks, and eat
The Rome that crushed you with hugs
Always ready, however, to say "the dead"
The Rome where as kids we spent all day playing in the street
and from a window your mother screamed "Come on, they might kill you"
As I write this poem,
I realize, however, that the wound has healed
because even if there's nothing left of all this
Rome continues undaunted to bewitch people.
And with a magic spell it creeps into your heart
whether you're born there or live there For a few hours.
Without stopping, therefore, circling around so much
It will always be like this, until the end of the world.
Because that's why Rome is and always will be the one and only "Eternal City!"

Stefano Barani