The Poet In Italy The train is running from Florence to Turin The year is 1926, the 18th of June At Milan station a duke appears, saying softly What you see is not all there is. All I can say Is that its best not to talk politics. Speech has no freedom here. And all these murders... Abruptly the train leaves. Creases on the poets brow. Was it an indiscreet mistake, after all? He seemed a worthy leader, energetic, devoted to the nation He seemed an artist too, the kind seen in artists eyes All true. Then why does Benedetto Croce slink home furtively at dawn? Why is there suppressed fear on so many peoples faces? After the Turin lecture the poet visits Rolland at Villeneuve His friends silent, Rolland wonders: Is it possible? From him we want to hear of liberated thought Of the independence of reason in our work Can he be so blind? The poet must broadcast how the historian Salvemini lives abroad Why, for that matter, the exiled Salvadori languishes in Zurich The gash of protest splitting whose face is woven in blood Terror and tyranny across the country behind closed doors He must explain that this is a time of existence When the leader crawls in public before the lumpens raised finger That this is a time when Decibels alone can turn blatant lies to immaculate truth This is a time when In a lawless land the only law is the dictators wish This is a time when Killers consign innocent flesh to sacrificial flames in every home You have not seen all this, poet You have only seen a festive, cheering, resplendent, bejewelled Rome Rolland was silent, silent his aggrieved friends The listener frowned. He must have made a mistake then He had to tell the world of his change of vision With pain and shame the poet took his pen up again ~ Shankha Ghosh #translation
Posted on: Sun, 24 Aug 2014 07:13:32 +0000
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