They Got Up

They went up to Montedidio to sell combs, olives,
sulfur water, garlic; the voices rose, the baskets lowered.
Mattress makers, knife-grinders, barbers, shoemakers knocked on the doors,
the city walked, visiting itself.
The voices, even among the festive bells,
rose, fell, rose, fell.
The voices penetrated, entered, passed through,
broke through, were transient.

Their eyes, however, blinked through alleys, against walls,
against a door, a closed window; they knew nothing.
And even if they saw a ghost, a thief, a saint,
they weren't believed: "It's just fantasy."
An eyewitness was worth five lire, in advance,
he offered himself before the Court,
two cases a day were lunch and dinner.

The eye was worth little, it was used for begging.
And then the sight is narrow, it only sees in front,
and the ear, which also hears behind,
hears the floor above and below. Whoever heard it was believed immediately.
Hearsay? It was worth the annulment.
They convicted hundreds of them, just like that, because of the ear,
with special laws during the 1980s.
The 20th century paid attention to rumors.
Now is the century of good eyesight,
sunglasses and earplugs,
whoever screams in the street, they take for a madman.