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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=581680" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Vino Rosso Della Guerra</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I<br>My father spoke of eating rats<br>to stay alive in World War I <br>as he lay in bloodied fields <br>while in the distance<br>he watched the vineyards glinting in the sun.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His mother had wailed as she watched him go<br>while his father’s bony finger <br>traced a purple cross</div><div style="margin:10px 0">bare feet wedded to the grapes</div><div style="margin:10px 0">marching<br>marching<br>marching</div><div style="margin:10px 0">to the beat of the drums	</div><div style="margin:10px 0">II<br>My mother said Mussolini was good <br>because he made everyone <br>throw their pigs out <br>of the house and made sure <br>everyone got pasta every day<br>but no meat. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">By then the pigs had all been slaughtered <br>to feed the army.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the garden behind her shack, <br>broccoli withered in the hot Sicilian sun, <br>water doled out like vino rosso to dying alcoholics. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'One liter too much and Il Duce’s soldati<br>might die of thirst, ' the peasants would hiss, <br>rolling their eyes, while huddling in dark cellars <br>where wine presses used to dwell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The purple grapes that once graced <br>the countryside had all been razed <br>the culls remaining <br>just so many <br>rotting raisins.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Allesandra+Patti">Allesandra Patti</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=581680" data-title="Vino Rosso Della Guerra de Allesandra Patti" data-description="I
My father spoke of eating rats
to stay alive in World War I 
as he lay in bloodied fields 
while in the distance
he watched the vineyards glinting in the sun.

His mother had wailed as she watched him go
while his father’s bony finger 
traced ..."></div>
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