In Rome on the Campo di
Baskets of olives and lemons,
Cobbles spattered with
And the wreckage of flowers.
Vendors cover the
With rose-pink fish;
Armfuls of dark
Heaped on peach-down.
On this same
They burned Giordano Bruno.
Henchmen kindled the
Close-pressed by the mob.
Before the flames had
The taverns were full again,
Baskets of olives and
Again on the vendors' shoulders.
I thought of the Campo dei
In Warsaw by the
One clear spring
To the strains of a carnival tune.
The bright melody
The salvos from the ghetto wall,
And couples were
High in the cloudless sky.
At times wind from the
Would driff dark kites
And riders on the
Caught petals in midair.
That same hot
Blew open the skirts of the
And the crowds were
On that beautiful Warsaw Sunday.
Someone will read as
That the people of Rome or
Haggle, laugh, make
As they pass by martyrs' pyres.
Someone else will
Of the passing of things human,
Of the
Born before the flames have died.
But that day I thought
Of the loneliness of the dying,
Of how, when
Climbed to his
There were no
In any human
To be left for mankind,
Mankind who live on.
Already they were back at their
Or peddled their white starfish,
Baskets of olives and
They had shouldered to the fair,
And he already
As if centuries had
While they paused just a
For his flying in the fire.
Those dying here, the
Forgotten by the world,
Our tongue becomes for
The language of an ancient planet.
Until, when all is
And many years have passed,
On a great Campo dci
Rage will kindle at a poet's word.
