by Guido Monte
Poetry
(Swans - May 22, 2006)
("dies...nihil est -- the day... is the slightest thing
dum versas te, nox fit , just one little move
and the night has fallen."
Hoy los americanos viven en el miedo, eso murmúra
el diario, lo ha eschuchado desde el viento del Norte.
Moi aussi, de ma fenêtre, j'attends l'attaque radiactive
qui remporte pour jamais tous les hommes
sous les petits ruisseaux des trottoirs...)
Alone I keep a long night vigil,
on the asphalt road long lines of shades,
to the two dream ways
there aren't right wars...
non esistono guerre giuste
non sunt iusta bella
il n'existe pas de guerres justes
koi bi lharai thik nhi he
in the Hades depths:
a steel building,
all the Authorities burning inside (what a silly demagogy),
Prime Ministers Kings Generals & their disfigured faces,
cropped ears cropped noses. And (once hailing) crowds crawl
before the river (in vain!), just shades
hunting for themselves...
("nos non pluris sumus quam bullae,
human beings: only bubbles, no more")
the weeping camp smells of hospital wards,
syrinxes phleboclysis crutches & amputation saws.
The woman-kamikaze: no arms; her mother, no legs,
killed in a refugee camp.
there aren't right wars...
non esistono guerre giuste
non sunt iusta bella
il n'existe pas de guerres justes
koi bi lharai thik nhi he
"Elì Elì, lemà sabactani?"
(comme en apparence de rêve nous traversons la porte d'ivoire)
at the dream doors: few guests in the Fourth House,
on the stream only green leaves, pebbles & nests
on the water-lilies...
a twinkling morning star
("cum sciamus nos morituros esse, quare non vivamus?
we know the end; why don't we really live?")
there aren't right wars...
non esistono guerre giuste
non sunt iusta bella
il n'existe pas de guerres justes
koi bi lharai thik nhi he
finished. Go
(The author thanks Rosa Maria Costa, Jatin Surjit, and Liliana Lo Giudice.)
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