Aux captifs, aux vaincus, à bien d’autres, encor…
that the mighty arms of the furies raze
to the ground the city of ideals we wanted to build,
under the ruins of buried dreams, closer to the soil,
Motherland, protect us: —the earth will never lie…
Among so many strange cries, may your pure voice
address us. There is little other consolation left
but to believe and hope for the new architecture
with which freer arms will bless your land.
If one could only forget the toppling city!
Distant, more beautiful, there is another, perhaps,
that sends us, over and above this shackled time,
heartbeats of faith and air, the tough bronze voice
that from high towers spreads down the paths
uplifting hearts and warming the feet of pilgrims.