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lunedì 3 maggio 2010

‘Claudio Damiani’ poeta

What is your name?

What is your name?
What is your name.
What is the name of that little bird
that has just landed on the sidewalk
and is pecking at the ground?
And now at school, while the girls are writing,
I look on the class list at their names,
names I hadn't seen yet.
And for a few, they seem strange,
as if things apart from them,
and I think: Girls, I would have given you other names,
but I don't utter these words.
And I look at their unrestrained joy,
like a dazzling waterfall
scattering through time,
like seeds separating
and then all of them coming together again.

Se un uomo o un animale, avvolto da una nube,

vaga per la montagna fino a morire assiderato,

o colto da una valanga viene seppellito nella neve,

o cade in un crepaccio da cui non può risalire,

la montagna non può far niente, non può aiutarlo in alcun modo

ma non pensare che non soffra, che non provi compassione,

non pensare che lei, dura come la pietra, non pianga.


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