Friday, March 30, 2012


Salvatore Quasimodo


I will know nothing of my life but its mysteries,
the dead cycles of the breath and sap.

I shall not know whom I loved, or love
now that in the random winds of March

I am nothing but my limbs. I fall
into myself, and the years numbered in me.

The thin blossom is already streaming from my boughs.
I watch the pure calm of its only flight.

trans. Don Paterson

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