Originally this was the last verse of a poem by Salvatore Quasimodo called “Solitudini”. It was later cut down to these three, hermetic verses. The poem reflects the existential condition of man: solitude, the pain of living, the brevity of life itself. For years I kept myself from translating it: It is too densely populated with the ghosts of great translators past. The ognuno has been everyone for too many years, the sera/ evening for too long, and the subito/ suddenly for what seems forever. So, I stalled. But there is a time…