That wind acid which increases
mosquitoes and tamarisks at the crossroads
of Coscile and Crati,
in the sun-burnt plain,
it is no cowardly inertia,
abandonment, rotten fairy tales,
but sighs of God
who saw the Temples were falling
and he could not remedy,
because He was drunk and lying by the sea
he was telling dreams to his maid
about a future of light.
It is not death playing in the waters,
a song flows limpid in the shoots,
a new song
that will change yours and my substance,
which will defeat the shadows,
and the dumb pines
they will gladly branch to the four poles
the Milone’s mistake.
1972
Written in pencil on the last blank page
de “The house of sleeping beauty”
by Yasunari Kawabata.
Traduced by Claudia Piccinno