Piazza Navona, at night, on a bench, I lay on my back in search of peace, eyes linked to the stars by straight lines and convoluted spirals, those I traced as a child lying on the pebbles of the Platani, spelling out prayers in the dark. I crossed my hands under my head, and remembered my return: the odour of fruit drying on racks, of wallflowers, ginger, lavender; when I thought of reading to you, slowly, (I to you, mother, in a corner in shadow) the parable of the prodigal son, who always followed me in silence, like a rhythm that began at every step without my volition. But the dead are not given to returning, and there is no time for one’s mother even when the road calls, and I would set out once more, enclosed in night as I feared at the dawn of my stay. And the road gave me its songs, that know the grain that swells in the ear, the flower that whitens the olive groves, between the blue of flax and the narcissi, sounds in the flurries of dust, the chants of men and the creaking of waggons, with lanterns that feebly sway, and have scarcely a firefly’s brightness. - Returning (Piazza Navona, a notte, sui sedili) by Salvatore Quasimodo
Posted on: Wed, 10 Dec 2014 17:20:18 +0000
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