THE POOR ART

In narrow labyrinthine alleys
old craftsmen work
the paper and the stone
in their small workshops
which look like wide open dens
in the walls washed out by the rain.
Almost imperceptible you can hear the noise
of the stone-cutter shaping the rock
into capitals, columns and acanthus leaves.
A fantasy which becomes visible in the stone,
a milk soaked stone.
It's the stone of Lecce which lasts centuries
and yet crumbles as time passes.
You can see those sensitive hands
moulding the papier-mâché;
and our ancestors gain eyes
and faces to study
their land once more,
the same land which loves
a poor art
and dreams eternity from ephemeral things.