Gabriella Garofalo [II]'s No more fibs, music knows her game:

Hymns being sung in churches
While christened babies wail,
Blue rhapsodies at full blast in the bookshops
While readers dawdle, looking dazed -
Why then pleading voices fail to reach
Our tone-deaf souls -
You over yet, God?
Now a tent in the desert for the soul -
Don’t trust them, go, run away,
Not summer, but death
The seeds will aver
And who bloody cares if she looks frail,
Dead are the days when she snitched
Books, prophets, trees -
Loss kept lookout -
The soul hides now, she skirts off
If women invade, too close for comfort,
Yet she forgets: the rival too is a woman
Who quivers as your eyes touch her lightly -
Yes, God, the grass in love on a morning
When you realise only the life-lacking souls
Get soaked in the rain
And hapless eyes dirty your sky.

Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella Garofalo fell in love with the English language at six, started writing poems (in Italian) at the same age, and is the author of Lo sguardo di Orfeo, L’inverno di vetro, Di altre stelle polari and Blue branches.