segunda-feira, novembro 02, 2009

à sua morte...

Holy Land


The finest poetry
is written on stones
on sore knees
with :minds sharpened by mystery.
The finest poetry is written
before an empty altar
circled by agents
of divine madness.
Like this, criminal madman as you are,
you dictated verses to humanity,
lines of revolt
and biblical prophecies
and you're Jonah's brother.
But in the Promised Land
where golden apple trees grow
as does the Tree of Knowledge
God has never descended or cursed you.
But you cursed
your own song hour after hour
because you descended into limbo
where you breathe the absinthe
of a survival denied you.


Hush, sweet grass
emerging from the earth,
don't strum the tender harmony
of living things,
bite your measure
because my heart is sad
and won't harmonize.


Hush, green grass
don't rise out of ditches
with your song of light,
oh stay underground
naked inside your seed
as do I, not giving
bud to a word.

Alda Merini (1931-2009)
Translated from the Italian by Sharon Dolin

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