Piazza Gimma

　　by Fabio Mórabito

　　 Translated by Geoff Hargreaves

　　 I spy on the building

　　 closest to hand

　　 a movement that begins

　　 out on its balconies

　　 as the day's routine，

　　 the early tasks of morning

　　 with their stock and styleless gestures，

　　 flowers again.

　　 I fall in love at this one hour

　　 when people most repeat themselves，

　　 least connected to their inner lives

　　 and packed with habits laid down long ago.

　　 There's a woman I observe who

　　 constantly appears in bathrobe，

　　 on floor eight， with coffee cup，

　　 matronly blonde， in love with life

　　 casting glances at her wider world while taking

　　 two quick sips or three，

　　 and then with an erotic shake

　　 loosens up the sugared lees， to reach

　　 the best of sips， the last， the sweetest. . .

　　 all before quite waking up.

　　 Before you quite wake up，

　　 blonde of the morning， hold fast

　　 to ritual tasting， self-communion.

　　 Off from your balcony，

　　 at last emerged from sleep，

　　 slip inside your home， by now yourself，

　　 make gestures of your own，

　　 not those somebody has bequeathed to you