EXCAVATION Poem by Umberto Fiori

High up the cranes swing round
and down below there's a criss-cross
traffic of sirens
but this hole
they're making in the midst of houses
is like those dried-up streams in the country,
dead still.

The building site,
all of it now on view
from above, from the sixth, the seventh floor,
is a large extinct crater.
It's frightening to see how much light,
how much wind it holds.

For months and months in this huge theatre
the shouting of measurements will be heard.
Then the whole emptiness on view
will have been covered in concrete and glass
and on some tiny balcony - someone still wanting to watch -
a towel will be flapping.