Voice I have been pursuing several nights in vain
I know the wait all too well
and the piercing blow and the wave
propagated along the streets north of the heart
it arrives
and it is the call of a little girl:
– We are like a violin, aren’t we?
Words
fly like music from our mouth
and our tongue is the bow…
But if I cry,
is the wood of my violin like
a branch in the rain?
To speak as if
being born to others, every time,
to be born
unto the white light where
whiteness is the universe offered by the notes
the buzzing of angels over Berlin
over regions
outside doubt outside misunderstanding
This is how children speak kneading the earth
with the least pain needed
To speak as if
living par-taking
in the secret rhythms of some god of symbols
in vibrations protected to the end
where the voice will become more than music
boundless pure
free to
parlar di – talk about everything
sussurrare – whisper
annullare – miss, even
(the sound of dew in the night)
Tomorrow, tomorrow, when?
Today it is raining
on the wood of the branches
One word alone
can murder, just
One note
can silence a violin
Translation by Anamaria Crowe Serrano