A poet of Lucania, very good, perhaps unfortunate to be living contemporary of Montale, Ungaretti and Quasimodo. A destiny that makes me dear, and even more dear to his voice subdued, reflective and thoughtful.
Leonardo Sinisgalli, New Elysian Fields (1947)
Who loves does not recognize, does not recall, is obscure
every thought,
is foreign to every event.
later I realized all the years that the air is already on the hill
lighter
the grass is warm ferments.
I had come so late to
not feel afraid,
pound dry stubble rasping
dry walled, cover boredom
like a mirror with the breath. I am a prisoner
bird in a golden cage. The forest
colorful and colorless to me.
The soul has found its
room around you.
*
It is difficult for years to loosen the knots, to
to give a fabulous a lock
unreadable signs lost.
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