martedì 5 novembre 2013

APRIL - Self-translated poems 16

"I poeti sono disposti perfino a mentire, pur di dire sempre la verità".(Ermanno Muolo)

 APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding  
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing  
Memory and desire, stirring  
Dull roots with spring rain.
T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land.

Today the sun is shining
yet it would be the same
And you
          you have no sense
to me

Things that come
Things that go
Come and go
          -shall we play?

          the pink of the peach tree
and glitters the windscreen
your messages
the cat mews
and so it is.

-but really?

Songs, songs
and you
you have no sense
to me
 La versione originale della poesia è in : Variazioni su Tema

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