Under The Way

I was reminded today of an elderly German sister we knew in Milan. We called her Sorella Unterweger. She lived in some government subsidized housing north (I think) of the Circonvalazione in Milan. I'm sure she is deceased now. In her apartment she had 30 or so small birds that just ran loose. You had to be attentive to their occasional "blessings." She wrote a small poem about the missionaries that I thought I should preserve in some way for her.

Ogni partenza degli Anziani
Piange il cielo di Milano
Se non e' diluvio, e' pioggiarella pian piano
Piange anche l'occhio umano
Al rumore degli aeri che li portano lontano

Every time the Elders leave
The sky over Milan cries
If it's not a flood, it's a slow drizzling rain
The eye of man also cries
At the sound of the planes that take them far away.