I found these poems in my Mother’s papers. (She died in 2003 – it’s taken me a while to get around to sorting them.) I think they show a guilty conscience on my part. (It would also help to know Italian, especially in the first one.)
My life cannot be seen as having worth,
Especially in reference to you.
I’m immature, and filled with my own view,
My words do not have depth, in shallow earth
Meant only for the wind and famine’s dearth,
Eventually to be sown anew,
Repeating what I know to be so true:
I have been undeserving of your mirth.
Tomorrow see us living out our days,
Eternally at odds with these two thoughts:
Virility is this man’s way to be
Offensive, while your gentle woman’s ways
Leave your virginity in Love’s soft…
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