My Brother’s Hands
When, about eleven years ago,
a deadly influenza threatened the world,
my ill brother called me from Italy
and asked, worried,
if I was taking care of myself at work
and if I was wearing a face mask.
Soon, three packages of masks arrived in the mail.
Protective, pink and fancy,
since they were designed in Italy.
Another plague fell upon us,
bringing up the memories of the masks
my brother had sent me.
These days, in Dante’s homeland,
they are worn by the heroes battling Corona.
I’d treasured my pink masks
that reminded me of my dead brother.
But now I wear them all the time.
They gently caress my face
As did his warm hands, long ago.
And I’m not afraid.
I am not afraid.
/Traslation : Jasna Furtinger & Kristin Muraki/