Chapter 3 3
The sun is so delicate, so young,
We're all a little scared; a careless gesture
It's also possible to scratch it, just shout - if anyone
Try shouting--may hurt it too; only the swift-flying swift,
Wings hard as cast iron,
Dare to sing, 'cause they're new in their mud nests
through a short, restless childhood,
next to siblings, crazy asteroids,
Black as the berries of the forest.
The Sleepy Waiter in the Bistro - The Last Shadow of the Night
meet under his eyes - into the coat pocket
Picking out the change, the coffee smells solemnly of ink,
Sweet and Arabic.blue sky
Promised a long afternoon, an endless day.
It was as if I was seeing you for the first time.
Even the columns of this Palladian building seem
are newborn, they rise from the tide of dawn,
Like Venus, your older companion.
From scribbling, counting the damage, counting the dead,
Start the day without you, you first,
Twice we buried you, we mourned you twice,
You lived twice and were as strong as anyone else, on two continents,
In two languages, in the real world and in the imagined world - and then you,
With a handsome and upright face, the eyes magnify
Various objects and minds (never too small).
Both of you are gone, from now on we will live a double life,
In light and shadow at the same time, in bright sunlight
And in the cold of stone halls, in sorrow and joy.
In the semi-darkness white buildings stand up, not yet fully
Take shape, and beside the building complex, the gray vineyard, the tranquility before dawn;
Judas counted the silver coins, but in violent prayer
Twisted olive trees go deeper into the earth than ever.
Where is the sun!It's still cold now,
A humble landscape spreads around us;
The stars are gone, the priests are sleeping, the birds in August
Singing is not allowed, only occasionally
Stuttering, like a boy who doesn't work hard in Latin class in middle school.
It's four in the morning and despair lives in so many houses.
At this time the sad philosopher with a narrow face
Carving out their stale maxims, and the weary conductor,
They just revived Bruckner and Mahler last night,
Now sleeps with no applause, unwillingly, while the whores
Back to their shabby apartment.
we plead the vineyard
Brought to life, they are ashen as a coat of volcanic ashes;
Pleading the distant great cities to wake up from their indifference,
And I beg not to mistake freedom for chaos,
Pray to regain that faith that connects
Visible and invisible things, but do not dull the mind.
Below us the sea turns blue, the silhouette of the horizon
Gradually clear, like a slender ribbon
Embrace our turning planet lovingly and firmly,
We see fishing boats rocking reliably, like seagulls
On the dark water, not for a moment
The crimson disk of the sun emerges from the half-circle of mountains,
Return the gift of light.
Try to praise this crippled world.
Think of the long days of June,
And wild strawberries, a drop of red wine.
methodically crawling full of exiles
Nettles of abandoned homes.
You must praise the crippled world.
You gaze upon the fashionable yachts and steamships;
One of them has a long journey ahead,
Others have salty oblivion waiting for them.
You have seen refugees cornered,
You have heard the executioner sing joyfully.
You should praise this broken world.
Think of the time we spent together,
In a white room, the curtains flutter.
Recalling that concert, the music flickered.
You gather acorns in the autumn park,
The leaves swirl on the wounds of the earth.
praise this broken world
and a gray feather dropped by a thrush,
and that which wanders, disappears and returns
soft light.