Epilogue for Pasolini

Such humanness, incurable from birth,

enlightened thoughts of yours, which still endure.

Their power, so prophetic, I unearth.

As true as lilies, dwelled your thoughts, impure

to you, but I can grasp an art so cryptic,

a mental feast, an elegiac cure.

Decameron, the first in vital triptych,

so full of innocence, cathartic vision.

A weaver’s art, remembrance left you sick.

Recalling past and festering excision.

Regarding any written word, your faith,

eclipsed by Death, did forecast Lust’s collision.

Forget the painful truth, embrace the myth,

the pilgrims’ vibrant tales you could redeem,

yet still by Future’s scythe, became a wraith.

Transformed by truth that lies within a dream.

And nonetheless all woe could not efface,

reduced by all Life’s joy, a blest regime.

Once more within the frame, that living face

was yours, among a chorus of expressions.

Beg Death for sense of life when souls embrace

with force, completing finalized transgressions,

the love you gave and took against the sea,

a witness, reaching towards the blind aggressions.

Had I beheld it all, you would find me

struck dumb before the slaughter of a poet

and deifying Man in green Friuli.