Musica d’autunno – Autumn music

Amo pensarti la sera,
quando anche le porte degli armadi
smettono di correre inseguendo il giorno
e accolgono la liquida, tiepida dolcezza
dell’abbandono:
allora sciolgo in bocca le tue frasi ad una ad una
centellinando queste gocce di luce
danzanti sulla distesa salata dell’assenza
e parlo piano,
perché solo tu possa sentirmi, soltanto se lo vuoi.
Lo so che la pioggia non è mai d’argento
e neppure la luna, del resto,
che comunque, questa sera non si vede.
Non c’è niente, qui, che ti appartiene
se non questa mia anima un po’ sgualcita e lisa,
consumata dal troppo camminare a piedi nudi
sugli orli della distanza tra la terra e il cielo.

Amo pensarti di giorno,
in questo vortice in temporaneo movimento
che di cerchio in cerchio si avvicina al centro del tuo nome.
Tra orologi che tradiscono le mie partenze,
sempre in anticipo o in ritardo per il treno verso altrove,
tu sei il mio tempo giusto
e vivo senza risparmio entrambe le mie vite.
Non mi serve, forse questo amore,
non è che musica d’autunno, melodia di coriandoli
che sposta il mio cuore senza pentagramma,
un ghirigoro scarabocchiato con maestria
sul lineare andamento delle mie domande.
Ma l’utilità, del resto, mi serve ancora meno:
l’inutile ha imparato la preziosa arte
di non aver altro scopo che se stesso,
lo stesso senso di queste curiose sfere
gettate in ordine sparso nello spazio.

Dio se è difficile credere all’ignoto,
già è combattuta la mia fede
nelle cose che ho davanti agli occhi.
Chissà se gli angeli ridono davvero, adesso;
il paradiso, in fondo, è saper reggere al dolore,
perché sai cosa credo? Che senza dolore non si ride
– e nessuno più di te sa quel che dico.
Forse non ho quello che cerchi
ma so camminare sul ciglio dei burroni
reggendomi in equilibrio precario sulle mani
per non avere punti fermi, ma libertà d’aria,
viaggi di falchi pellegrini senza passaporto,
il muover silenzioso di una foglia incerta,
il miele scuro dei castagni, il sale nelle vele,
vento di mare e questo istante di corallo,
una strada che prosegue ben oltre le colline
e per noi, tutto il tempo del mondo, ora.

I love to think of you in the evening,
when even the wardrobe doors
stop running after the day
and welcome the liquid, lukewarm sweetness
of abandon:
then I melt your sentences in my mouth, one by one
relishing these drops of light
that dance on the salty expanse of absence
and I speak low,
so that only you can hear me, only if you want to.
I know the rain is never silver
and neither is the moon, indeed,
which, moreover, cannot be seen tonight.
Nothing, here, belongs to you,
except for this creasy, run-down soul
worn out by all this walking barefoot
on the brinks of the distance between earth and sky.

I love to think of you during the day,
in this temporarily moving whirl
that circle by circle, comes to the centre of your name.
Among these clocks that betray my departures,
always late or early for the train to somewhere else,
you are my right time
and I openheartedly live both my lives.
This love is useless to me, perhaps,
It’s nothing but autumn music, a confetti melody
that displaces my hearth without a pentagram,
a scribble drawn in a masterly way
on the linear trend of my questions.
Yet I need usefulness even less:
Uselessness has learnt the precious art
of having no other aim but itself,
the same sense of these curious spheres
randomly thrown around the space.

God, isn’t it hard to believe in the unknown
my faith is uncertain already
when it comes to things that are before my eyes.
Could it be that angels are laughing now;
heaven, after all, is just withstanding the pain,
‘cause you know what I believe? That without pain, one cannot laugh,
– and nobody more than you will know what I’m saying.
I may not have what you’re looking for
but I can walk on the edge of ravines
standing in unstable balance on my hands
‘cause I don’t want no anchor, but the freedom of the air,
the travelling of peregrine falcons with no passport,
the silent moving of an uncertain leaf,
dark chestnut honey, salt in my sails,
sea wind and this coral instant,
a road that carries on, well beyond the hills
and for us, all the time in the world, now

The absurdity of distances

I used to be beautiful
– it still happens, now and then –
– and I surely do like your eyes,
but there’s a difference between looking at beauty
and this bosom love
that comes into me from far away
like a nut kernel
and breaks the pain in my shell.
I am a warrior, maybe
a rebel out of curiosity
without so much noise;
I fight by silently laughing,
to myself,
of the absurdity of distances
of the colors of the paradise I’m still looking for
between your wrinkles and your young thoughts,
and I write as I don’t know what to say,
I hide life within a folded sheet,
You understand more quickly
by walking on the wrong paths
it costs a laceration in your flesh
in your soul, perhaps,
but still it’s better than taking the right way
to follow it all along
without even thinking twice;
it still is better than opening sad umbrellas
to shelter from the sun and the rain
better than changing over your wardrobe
every time a season ends.
‘Cause you see, my season
has always just begun
and I don’t turn my eyes away to shirk the pain
Poetry is not to take the memory from my body,
but so that your presence will be sweeter,
like a gentle caress, the shadow of a promise:
the past will come,
when we re-live every day
the charm of the first time we never had
and you’ll be able to sleep in my hug.
With you I’d come beyond the stars
and wouldn’t even be afraid to fall down
after all, as you said, up or down
it’s hard to say in hyperspace
I’d come on the roller coaster, to a country at war
or riding a bike on the asphalt
of the roads of San Francisco
and you’ll teach me to love you as one should
with eyes and mouth and legs and night and day
with that love that doesn’t remain on the threshold
but enters your room, down to the very end,
and sees you.