by Guido Monte
Translated by Giulia Greco
© 2013 Guido Monte
(Swans - April 22, 2013)
you had a face furrowed with grievous wrinkles,
you carried your body with dignity, you walked around
rises and limpid waters of ancient lands,
and thinking about the old well of pozzale,
a place of meditation, you said.
even drinking a drop of water,
even seeing a place, for you
that was a way to wait the soul,
you loved the poor things that
had memory, no more tales.
you were pleased with living images,
with a funeral of dolls and a man
who turns back, or with animals
invisible to the others.
and even your water sounds,
the simple benches, a daisy to caress
when you lied down on the grass.
a trickle of water between the rocks was
your elementary life. you looked for
an organ to repeat water noises.
you heard deeply felt chorus
of devout armenians, you touched the sky
far from our robot-life,
you found the answer
for no-answer questions, thinking
of a clown who sweeps away the dust from the mirror
and follows a butterfly, thinking of the deads' whisper.
at the end you sit down, again, in the garden,
while your wife is picking up a fallen petal
and is burying it according to an oriental rite,
i see you there, eternally, even if you rest
just like boats that sleep, tired
and ancient, on the dried up ground of aral lake.
About the poet and writer Tonino Guerra (1920-2012), see also http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tonino_Guerra on Wikipedia.
picture: natura, by Guido Monte (2013).
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