INHABITANTS Poem by Umberto Fiori

The sun high up
and below the rising smoke,
the piazza and the walls in shade:
this is what we are used to -
the habit.
Behind the last house
this morning the mountains
appeared
much too close and naked.

Once round the corner,
there was the weight of bodies
who had jumped on the moving bus.
Between the flashes of welders' torches
there came up through the asphalt
the smell of mud.

We have been here always.
Sometimes though, it seems
as if we're not still living
in the usual place. One day on the way to work
to feel the earth under our feet
how hard it is - how solid -
makes us afraid.