| Non Vita
Da “Pianissimo” di Camillo Sbarbaro Non, Vita, perché tu sei nella notte la rapida fiammata, e non per questi aspetti della terra e il cielo in cui la mia tristezza orribile si placa: ma, Vita, per le tue rose le quali o non sono sbocciate ancora o già disfannosi, pel tuo Desiderio che lascia come al bimbo della favola nella man ratta solo delle mosche, per l’odio che portiamo ognuno al noi del giorno prima, per l’indifferenza di tutto ai nostri sogni più divini, per non potere vivere che l’attimo al modo della pecora che bruca pel mondo questo o quello cespo d’erba e ad esso s’interessa unicamente, pel rimorso che sta in fondo ad ogni vita, d’averla inutilmente spesa, come la feccia in fondo del bicchiere, per la felicità grande di piangere, per la tristezza eterna dell’Amore, per non sapere e l’infinito buio… per tutto questo amaro t’amo, Vita. |
Not Life
From “Pianissimo” by Camillo Sbarbaro Not, Life, because you are in the night sky a rapid flame, and not for these worldly nor these celestial traits in which my horrifying sadness finds full relief: but, Life, for the roses which have not yet blossomed and for those which have already died away, for your persistent Yearning which leaves you much like the child in the fable, with clenched fists and a handful of nothing, for the hatred we carry within us for who we once were, for the apathy of all for our most divine reveries, for living for that one moment alone nothing more than sheep who graze the pastures far and wide for this or that clump of grass and whose interest lies in that alone, for the remorse that rests in every life, at knowing it has been spent in vain, like the grounds at the bottom of the cup, for the immense pleasure that springs from tears, for the endless sadness that springs from Love, for lack of knowledge and infinite dark… for all this bitterness I love you, Life. Translation by ©Matilda Colarossi |
Camillo Sbarbaro, multifaceted poet unjustly forgotten. He observed the world with the wonder of a child. His is a world of simple things, the scents and beauty of nature: “Many are disturbed by nature; most fail to see it. Into nature I retreat. It is the only constancy, the only loyalty I know in the uncertainty of everything.”
Of his friend, Eugenio Montale wrote: «In Sbarbaro, words have the stigmata of their own painful and necessary genesis. And since poets recognize themselves in this last common characteristic, which is almost totally missing in all other writers, Sbarbaro is not just artist but true poet.”
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