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Photo of the ‘dead’ tree
The poem on the “massacre of trees in Milan”
I’ve been meeting for years
the same poplar,
on the road I was on
after work, it was my habit.
A week, a month,
fifteen years ago, my habit
it was that tree
that bound me to the place,
to my reality. And I said hello
the majestic poplar
which then snowed
without notice. And I was happy,
to cover me from head to toe
of its snow.
Yesterday I came back
on my steps, those of always,
the age-old poplar died,
it was sliced in two
from the storm water, e
of hail and wind.
I mourn my majestic poplar
who no longer greets me,
that I will never see again
in Milan.
The author: Lucrezia Lerro
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