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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