Red Thistle
when the sirocco ceases, the bitter cliff —the thorns remain through the long winter, the ox moans as its white mass sinks down through the snow— throws out its flowers among the sticks blood-red, a violet point rooted in earth; you cannot see it in the lush grasses of April the girls arrive toward evening collect good herbs for holiday meals rip up clematis, digging around it and pulling from earth deep-rooted weeds but who becomes a woman that very day and who hand grips around the thistle a thorn will remain buried in her flesh blood shoots from her hand, a little always forever she will detest all living men and from them will keep her distance
— translated from the Italian by M. F. Rusnak