ORPHEUS

e non canto e non celebro che i topi
(Sergei Yessenin, trad. Angelo Branduardi)


the muddy day, brewing the weary clay,
clammed all eyelids with remorse
so none sees me anymore

if I shout, if I walk about in the nude,
if I wreak havoc on the civil truce,
it is useless, I’m my one and only witness

names, I ain’t got any (though none asks for it,
what feels the same) and to a fellow nobody
I cede my seat, unless he prefers my own feet

collecting beads from my dried song-spring
to scatter it into the wind is of little aid,
nobody listens or understands such things

following among the blind and the shadows
should secretly fill me up with all those things
I am as always the single one aware of

but such magnificent beauty misspent
in signs we cannot decipher
shut up for meaning just too much -

as the sea silences on the beach
or as bodies quiet down again
after love’s seeped through them

and all the offspring that springs from my tongue
grows up stronger,
steals my gasp and speech,

till they banquet
profusely
on my own leftovers

from now on I will sing only for the joy of rats and frogs,
I leave my words to those who won’t be saved from fire,
and reek and sweat like desire

I pick up my rests,
I’m both the dance of my shreds
and the dead dancer driven over the edge

the music which stood by me,
I looked back but could find but thin air,
yet still miss

another’s voice, another’s flair,
now can you believe this?
I have lately taken to talking to God