He pulled the trigger
on that noisy morning
in the Bunker of Berlin.
The pages of Mein Kampf,
just briefly soaked
were used to start
the fire that would mark
the end of an epoch
that had, astonishingly, given
birth to itself in 1928.
When a fanatic says a word
of hatred or of utter bigotry,
one must believe, as if it were HIS word
or be forever in the net of rank complicity.
So, he is dead and gone
but something ugly thrives,
it is called Hitlerism.
And it has spread to reach
all corners of a peace-less globe.
It dresses in the clothes of any emperor
and wears the mask of true benevolence.
Perhaps the answer is to close one's eyes
and listen to the music of oblivion.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem