Vittorio Staffolani

As brazen day succumbs before the night,
The cool and restful touch upon the land,
Prevailing winds unveil the baleful sight
Once burnt into the wasted desert sand.

Forgotten soul, a monument of pain
That shrieks before the darkness and the cold,
And wincing every raking sandy grain,
An ancient wound of timeless woes untold.

The fool, the wise, the coward, and the brave,
The strong, the weak, the sinner and the saint,
Have cast their lot beside this barren grave
Of souls destroyed by torment’s cancerous taint.

A jackal trots, surveys the barren hill
With better sense than man. He smells the breath.
A whimper soft, he scampers from the still,
A stench so sickly sweet of blood and death.

Resounding laughter echoes from below
That scatters creatures near who take to flight.
A saddened silence deep as gorge’s grow
For fallen men below to shattered blight.

All worldly pleasures taste of ash and dust.
Amusement, cheer, delight, elation, bliss
All crumble down like iron turns to rust,
A passionate embrace of Sheol’s kiss.

Prometheus bound from lips of pagan lore
Or Jesus crucified in holy writ,
Their suff’rings shorn their souls by woes so more,
A fellowship by hearts that love commit.