Our echoes are pre-historic
our human experience meloncholic,
Millenia moulded our past
folded memories now niente,
Our oral history still tacet.
We are the dust of territorial
wars, scores sacrificed
our lives supposedly ternary,
Acted out in various parts
yet our rhythm snuffed out suddenly.
We who never saw earth’s light
hear the boken notes of a
childless mother in a noir night,
Her eternal grief dark dolente
as she sings her lullaby dolce.
We are the victims
of alien diseases,
Medicinal miracles falsely
prophesised by eager oracles,
Our demise painfully calando
as they declared us
eternally chiuso.
Our swan song pensively penseroso,
Our sacrifices an omaggio
to eons of bravado,
Our cries trumpet in steady
staccato, as we remind you
of erroneous choices made
from revolutionary noises.
Our passion is ballabile
we mostly enjoy it brillante,
Our art is abbandonata mante
as we create accarezzévole
and a hint of bisbigliando.
It remains a bene placito.
Source