Three poems from The Quest

translated by the author himself (cfr. In cerca, pp. 45-47)

Stages

I felt the breath upon me
my mind contracting the limbs
eager to relax.
I knew I had to go on.
From a plateau things
are less touching: we cannot
post them in others' boxes
but they become lighter and our faces
more confident to whom we have just
encountered. Our shame falls to pieces
the thin-fast statisfaction of whom is not
humble fades away.
We are beyond the pride that
limits what we think to be:
here we are
tired to question
ready to listen to.

I have been walking errantly
hoping each stage may finally
compose a way.




High Montefeltro (climbing eyes)

(On foot the distance is greater.)
Which is the name of those trees
with olive-tree colored leaves
lined at five hundred meters
from my eyes? They cross
a quite steep field
bordered by woods of a darker
green – while far away emerges
the beautiful turquoise profile
of the grey matter called Sasso Simone.

«Willows» they told me.




Uncertain target

You've been waiting for  the arrow to arrive
concentrated
on the vibration of the rope.