For Pasolini

Vecchio ragazzo di Casarsa, dear protagonist,
Where shall we find the like of your intelligence?
The hunters who come here on Sunday with their dogs and guns
Are not enough to keep the forest paths open.
Two years untrodden, and bramble will cover the track,
The broom lean across. They were paved once with stones
Packed in together to make rough and narrow highways,
 
Loosened now, a rubble, a watercourse, except
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