lunedì 5 dicembre 2016
Umberto Saba, "The Impious"
The Impious (L'empio)
In me the spirit I did kill, and sorrow that
is holy to the goods of the flesh I turned.
If you ever chanced of me, of my pale face
to feel horror mixed with compassion,
flee: a desert where no flowers grow is
my soul, I do not listen to any voice
except the female's who welcomed me
in herself, who lives of my low ardour.
I dream of the softest bay that the hottest
sun warms; under that very sky please
let me live---the same place I was born in.
Why do your eyes search me? asking for what?
Do not fear: I don't hide from me I am sick.
Do I not always look on-to the Enthusiast? *
* The religious founder, the protagonist of the following poem (that will not be reported here).