by Guido Monte
Translated by Giulia Greco
occhi di un cane
© 2011 Guido Monte
"... in blending, words, searching for their shared unit, melt away and become silences, the same silences that create music."
(Swans - January 30, 2012)
tout naît d'un geste, everything is born
of a gesture, of an unconscious and young look
who doesn't know that things have an end,
like dogs and donkeys which create worlds
by a look, con una mirada.
but if you know everything,
you can turn to a blind and still sea, unmoving
because on this way it's neither possible
nor necessary doing anything,
if you know that le grand sommeil
sans rêves, the heavy sleep
with no dreams finally will arrive,
if you know that there's no more time
for quite anything,
and one only life are not sufficient,
and a breath can slacken a rhythm of time
just for a while.
(so i thought while writing about a mad-ill
man-friend, left out of all, confined in a bound,
now my centre, that's the only for remembering
because forgotten at all, avec moi)
i too, i'm waiting for the end
of all, el final de todo
assis dans un divan, and looking
across the window at the bottom of the street,
and i don't speak as if they had cut my tongue,
i fall in a deep sleep and i dream to go out
under a new sun, and to light a candle
among bins of rubbish; but if you live,
will you disappear then?
and will it be as if we'd never been?
breathes dreams wishes tears words looks smiles
laughs journeys accents night skies,
all that as never lived?
everything swallowed by sleep,
yes, and also millions of names, of players
and parliamentarians, les politiciens all aboard
et les chefs du monde qui avaient l'illusion
d'être quelque chose au monde.
v (perhaps something like pity could,
one moment before the end,
still contain all, also the Other and his sores,
in the middle of what is the nothing-rest
of any other thing)
my mind goes far, just now
i'm writing like pianist
who tickles on the smoke
of empty rooms, and i always repeat,
like a recorder, the same words...
knowing to be devoid
of way, but, at the same time,
knowing like borges that
many ways exist: une forme de mystique,
falling asleep forgetting the evil
and waking up in a mist
of shared tenderness between anavim
who write and draw
unable to write
and unable to draw, incapaz
de escribir y incapaz de dibujar:
ciego i sail blindly,
i guess ways only collecting
thoughts of other people,
in the too short time
that remains to us:
if "en cherchant dans le blending
l'élément primordial, les mots s'annullent pour
être silences, les mêmes qui deviennent musique,"
baghavad gita says of an unmoving light
far from winds yathā dipo nivatastho
ne 'ngate so pama smŗtā
French and Spanish translations: Francesca Saieva and Olga Milazzo.
picture: occhi di un cane, by Guido Monte (2011).
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