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Poesie in inglese 2010

Traduzione inglese
di Robin Castelli

Musicians Are

Musicians are
the nightingales and sparrows
who first opened
windows
beyond life.

Argentine Tango

Tango
entwined root
wrings the rhyme
in manly lament
and then, here,
smoothes the pleats
of this fishnet
stretched and shapely leg
perfume of Eros
that opens
on a Portena street.

Tango, the lacquer
slides close to me
emigrant dancing the splits
and antique costumes,
the accordion
continues to play in minor
and the violin
extrovert soloist
engraves latin virtuosisms.

Tango,
tender triumph
muddy and misunderstood.

Now and forever. Forever is now.

Even today, it is you
ancient friend, mother
you, other presence you
my dog,
monolith, music, tile
from the kitchen floor,
the window on the works where war debris
was being removed and
the street urchins played football, then, and also today, is now.
These Sundays keep on replaying images that I have lived now.
In the livid twilight
of winter, now!
Maybe for the sweet piano that plays,
maybe for the dying friend.
I see what surrounds me,
with my own eyes,
and would have never imagined then,
child in that home,
that I could have ended up alone.

The story of Rosa

I found an old postcard
simple, transparent
my dear it's been a long time
I haven't heard from you,
what are you planning?
Write to me again if you find the time.

It was the sixteenth of December, followed
surely by a lonely Christmas.
She was a lesser aunt
that lived for years alone almost
without anyone.
Today she is gone
and this postcard now makes me feel lost
I would like to have given her
some affection.
She too wrote sad poetry,
painted watermelons and fabrics
as for her life,
used to arrive as a goodwilling guest
to some dinners bringing an
indipendent roast chicken.

I don't remember if I ever replied
to that postcard.
And it is't true that it no longer matters.

Torment

Haunted am I
by the tormenting question:
will I have time
to live?

Morning Again

The days fall upon me
like second hand shelves
that tumble
on my ankles.
The last five thousand
I remember them all,
one after the other.
Every one of them
passing by like rosary beans
in spite of me, almost mockingly
teasing me.
If I look back at the diary
I shiver,
and so be it.

Clouds - Nuages

Sleep embraces me
between conscience and dream
everlasting friend.
Dumbfounded
I observe it,
fascinating
infinite nourishment,
and remember that I
have always been, even tomorrow.
In a thousand years
you will be no more
but I will
a child
and his mother
will.
And it is I.

ALAS! Life has already left us!

Ląstima, que ya se fuč, la vida!
(Alas! Life has already left us!)
Ląstima! Que ya se fuč, la vida...
Declared out loud to no one
or to his raised trumpet
Daničl Lencģna,
Suddenly, at my side,
behind the vital applause
that over again,
dwelles into melancholy.

Ląstima, que ya se fuč la vida!
(Alas! Life has already left us!)

This phrase
sticks to my days
of sunshine and wakes
me by night with its sad lyricality
and forces me to a lamp,
a paper and a archival efforts.
What a note Daničl, what a great solo,
I alone captured from you
in the midst
of a drunken
rain of applause.


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