In vain you search amid the dust,
poor hand: dead is the city.
Dead: the last rumble was heard
in the heart of the Naviglio. And the nightingale
has fallen from the aerial, high on the convent,
w h e re it was singing before sunset.
Do not dig wells in the court y a rd s :
the living are no longer thirsty.
Do not touch the dead, so red, so swollen:
leave them in the earth of their homes:
dead is the city, dead.