132
We all carry life’s burden,
wherever or whenever we were born.
But the young starling in whom I placed
some hope for the future, and left its heart
pledged to a little goose, certainly swears
that there’s a country in the world – a very
strong country others hate – where the best man
always wins, and birth is a blessing for all.
I hear, if I’m awake at night, the groans
of the boy in his sleep; in my sleep hear
gasps of souls in torment. At my wakening
every face darkens.
‘If Italy was not your country –
I’m just saying: I know well you love it –
what homeland would you fancy?’ I fall silent;
he repeats the question back. ‘And you?’
He looks at me with his big eyes that in
sweetness of the soul touch maternal
proportions; his mouth forms a name
like a kiss. Lost in thought, I say nothing.133
See his face becoming, at my silence,
severe, his eyes glittering in hatred.
If it were not that pity brings respect
for those older than him, his guarantors,
he’d hurl himself on me, I think, as though
upon an enemy.
You say she left you, that alone
you bear the penalty of being born. I follow
a shadow far down solitary streets,
in a gleam of light from lamp-posts,
closed for ever in my memory.
I think the lines are beautiful. And perhaps,
following the shadow, you will find a body.
A sweet body will console you.