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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=360079" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Campo di Fiori</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">In Rome on the Campo di Fiori<br>Baskets of olives and lemons,<br>Cobbles spattered with wine<br>And the wreckage of flowers.<br>Vendors cover the trestles<br>With rose-pink fish;<br>Armfuls of dark grapes<br>Heaped on peach-down.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">On this same square<br>They burned Giordano Bruno.<br>Henchmen kindled the pyre<br>Close-pressed by the mob.<br>Before the flames had died<br>The taverns were full again,<br>Baskets of olives and lemons<br>Again on the vendors' shoulders.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I thought of the Campo dei Fiori<br>In Warsaw by the sky-carousel<br>One clear spring evening<br>To the strains of a carnival tune.<br>The bright melody drowned<br>The salvos from the ghetto wall,<br>And couples were flying<br>High in the cloudless sky.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At times wind from the burning<br>Would driff dark kites along<br>And riders on the carousel<br>Caught petals in midair.<br>That same hot wind<br>Blew open the skirts of the girls<br>And the crowds were laughing<br>On that beautiful Warsaw Sunday.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Someone will read as moral<br>That the people of Rome or Warsaw<br>Haggle, laugh, make love<br>As they pass by martyrs' pyres.<br>Someone else will read<br>Of the passing of things human,<br>Of the oblivion<br>Born before the flames have died.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But that day I thought only<br>Of the loneliness of the dying,<br>Of how, when Giordano<br>Climbed to his burning<br>There were no words<br>In any human tongue<br>To be left for mankind,<br>Mankind who live on.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Already they were back at their wine<br>Or peddled their white starfish,<br>Baskets of olives and lemons<br>They had shouldered to the fair,<br>And he already distanced<br>As if centuries had passed<br>While they paused just a moment<br>For his flying in the fire.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Those dying here, the lonely<br>Forgotten by the world,<br>Our tongue becomes for them<br>The language of an ancient planet.<br>Until, when all is legend<br>And many years have passed,<br>On a great Campo dci Fiori<br>Rage will kindle at a poet's word.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Czeslaw+Milosz">Czeslaw Milosz</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=360079" data-title="Campo di Fiori de Czeslaw Milosz" data-description="In Rome on the Campo di Fiori
Baskets of olives and lemons,
Cobbles spattered with wine
And the wreckage of flowers.
Vendors cover the trestles
With rose-pink fish;
Armfuls of dark grapes
Heaped on peach-down.

On this same square
They burned Gior..."></div>
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