“The Gulls of Settimo” by Primo Levi

From meander to meander, year by year,
The lords of the sky have come up the river,
Along the banks, up from its violent mouths.
They have forgotten surf and salt water,
The crafty patient hunts, voracious crabs.
Up through Crespino, Polesella, Ostiglia,
The newborn more determined than the old,
Beyond Luzzara, beyond dead Viadana,
Greedy for our ignoble refuse,
Fatter from bend to bend.
They have explored Caorso’s mists,
The lazy branches between Cremona and Piacenza.
Borne on the superhighway’s tepid breath,
Mournfully shrieking their grief greeting,
They have paused at the Ticino’s mouth,
Built nests under Valenza’s bridge
Among tar-clots and polyethylene scraps.
They’ve sailed to the mountain, beyond Casale and
Chivasso,
Fleeing the sea and lured by our abundance.
Now they hover restlessly above Settimo Torinese,
And, forgetful of the past, ransack our rubbish.