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主题 : 帕索里尼长诗《胜利》(申舶良译)
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帕索里尼长诗《胜利》(申舶良译)

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胜利
[意]皮埃尔•保罗•帕索里尼
申舶良/根据Norman MacAfee与Luciano Martinengo英译本转译

        
武器在哪里?  
我仅有的都来自自身理智
而我的暴力中甚至容不下

一件不智之举        
的痕迹。这可笑么,  
如果来自我梦的暗示,在这

灰色清晨,死人能够见到
别的死人也会见到,而对我们            
这不过是又一个清晨,
        
我高呼斗争之语?
谁知道到中午,我将  
如何,那老诗人却“狂喜”

他像云雀、八哥,或        
一个渴望去死的青年那样说话。
武器在哪里?旧日子
        
不复归,我知道;红色的            
青春四月已去。      
只有一个梦,关于欢乐,能开启
            
一个荷枪实弹的疼痛之季。    
我,一个缴了械的党徒,          
神秘,无胡须,无姓名,
      
我意识到生命中可怕地    
染了芬芳的反抗的种子。      
在清晨叶片都很平静

如同曾在塔利亚门托河 (1)  
和利文扎河畔时——不是暴风将至    
或夜晚降临。是生命的
            
缺席,它沉思自身,          
与自身疏离,专注于
理解那些仍充溢其中的
  
恐怖而宁静庄严的力——四月的芬芳!
每叶草都有一个荷枪实弹的青年,      
都是渴望去死的志愿者。                      
……
好。我醒来——第一次      
在我的生命中——我想拿起武器。            
在诗中说这个是荒唐的

——对四位来自罗马、两位来自帕尔马的朋友
将从这完美地译自德语的乡愁中            
理解我,在这考古的

安宁中,凝视阳光丰沛、人烟稀少的  
意大利,野蛮的党人的家园,他们从
阿尔卑斯山脉下到亚平宁山脉,沿着古道……
    
我的狂暴只在黎明到来。  
中午我将与同胞们一起  
工作,吃饭,处于现实,升

白旗,今天,关乎众生的命运。
而你,共产主义者,我的同志/非同志,
同志的阴影,隔绝的近亲

迷失于当下,还有遥远,
将来那些无法想象的日子,你,无名的
父亲,已听到呼唤

我觉得那像是我的呼唤,
正在燃烧,像被遗弃在
冰冷平原上的火焰,沿着沉睡的

河流,在炸弹爆响的群山……
……
我将一切责难加于自身(我的
旧业,未予供认,简单活计)
指向我们无望的弱点,

正是为此我千千万万,
都是一个命,无法
坚持到底。结束了,

我们一起唱吧,哒啦啦:它们正在坠落,
越来越少,战争与
殉难之捷的最后叶片,

被将成为现实的东西
于点滴中毁坏,
不止是亲爱的“反应”,还有美好的

社会民主的诞生,哒啦啦。

我(欣然)将罪责加于自身
将一切按其原样处置之罪:
失败之罪,怀疑之罪,艰苦的年月中

肮脏的希望之罪,哒啦啦。
我还会将最黑暗的乡愁之痛的
煎熬加于自身,

它以那般真实
唤起悔恨的诸事,几乎
让它们复活,或是重构那些

使它们必不可少的破碎的条件(哒啦啦)……
……
武器都去了哪里,和平
而丰饶的意大利,你在世界中已无足轻重?
处在这奴性的镇定中,这镇定证明

昨日的繁盛,是今朝的萧芜——从崇高
到荒诞——在最完美的孤独中,
我控诉!别,冷静,政府、大地产,

垄断企业——即便它们的高层祭司,
意大利的知识精英,他们所有人,
甚至那些老实地自称

“我的好友”的人们。这些年也必是
他们生命中最糟的年份:因接受
一种不曾存在的现实。这纵容,

这窃用理想的后果,
是真的现实中已无诗人。
(我?我枯竭,报废。)

如今陶里亚蒂已从 (2)
上次血腥罢工的回响中退位,
老了,有先知为伴,

他们,哎呀,是对的——我梦到武器
藏在泥里,哀悼的泥
在其中孩子们游戏,老父们劳作——

当忧愁从那些墓碑走下,
名录破碎,
墓门崩裂,

年轻的死尸们穿着
那些披的外套,宽松的
裤子,军帽扣在他们党徒的

头发上,他们走下来,沿着
紧挨市场的墙,沿着把
城市的菜园和山坡相连的

小道。他们从墓中走下,年轻人
眼中盛着的不是爱:
一种秘密的疯狂,属于那些像被一种

异于自身的命运召去战斗的人。
怀着那些不再是秘密的秘密,
他们走下,死寂地,在黎明的阳光里,

而,离死这么近,那些将在这世界上
远行的人们的步履中,却数他们的欢快。
但他们是山里、波河的野岸边 (3)

和最寒冷的平原上最遥远之地
的居民。他们在这儿干什么?
他们回来了,无人能将他们阻挡。他们不隐藏

武器,他们手持武器不含悲喜,
无人注视他们,好像羞愧使这些人盲目,
羞愧来自枪肮脏的闪烁,来自那些兀鹫

降入它们在阳光中暧昧的职责的声响。
……
谁有胆量告诉他们
他们眼中秘密燃烧的理想
已经终结,属于另一时代,他们兄弟

的孩子们已多年不战斗,
而一个残酷的新历史已生产出
别的理想,静静地将他们朽烂?

他们像粗陋而贫穷的野人,将触及
这二十年来人类的暴行收获的
新事物,无法动摇那些

寻找正义的人们的事物……

而我们来庆祝吧,让我们打开. . .
合作社的好酒……
为总有新的胜利,新的巴士底!

莱弗斯科,蠕虫……万岁!
为你的健康,老友!力量,同志!
为美好的党献上最好祝愿!

在葡萄园之上,在农场的池塘之上
太阳来临:来自那些空荡墓穴,
来自那些白色墓碑,来自那遥远的时代。

而他们正在这里,狂暴,荒唐,
发出移民的怪声,
吊在街灯上,扼在绞具中,

谁来率领他们发动新的斗争?
陶里亚蒂本人终于老了,
老去乃是他一生的所愿,

他将一个警报器握在胸前,
像一位教皇,我们对他的全部爱,
虽被史诗般的热爱侏儒化,

忠诚得甚至接受一种暴烤的透明
的最非人的果实,强韧如疥疮。
“一切政治都是现实政治,”战斗的

灵魂,带着你精致的愤怒!
你认不出别的灵魂,除了这一个
有聪明人的全部平实话语,

献给老实民众的革命的全部
平实话语(甚至艰苦年月的杀手
和他的共犯也嫁接成

古典主义的保护人,共产主义者
就变得可敬了):你认不出那颗心
已做了它敌人的奴隶,敌人去哪里

它就去哪里,被一种历史引领着
这是两者共同的历史,使两者,深深陷落,
扭曲着,成为兄弟;你认不出一种

觉悟的恐惧,借与世界争斗,
同享世世代代的争斗法则,
像穿过一片悲观进入那希望能

沉溺其中以增阳刚之地。为一种
不知幕后动机的欢乐而欢乐,
这军队——在盲目的阳光中

盲目——全是死去的青年,到来,
等待。如果他们的父亲,他们的领袖,正专注于
一场与权力的玄妙论辩,困在它的

辩证逻辑当中,而历史不停地将这逻辑改变——
如果他遗弃了他们,
在白色群山,在宁静庄严的平原,

渐渐地,儿子们
野蛮的胸中,恨成为对恨的爱,
只在他们中燃烧,这几个,被拣选的。

啊,绝望无法无天!
啊,无政府之乱,对神圣的
自由之爱,唱着英勇的歌!
……
我还将罪责加于自身,试图
背叛之罪,权衡投降之罪,
将善当做次恶来接纳之罪,

对称的不相容握在
我的拳中有如旧习……
人的一切问题,带着它们暧昧不明的

糟糕陈词(自我的孤独
之结,它感到自身将死
而不愿赤裸着来到上帝面前):

我将这一切加于自身,我便能从内部
理解,这模糊的果实:
被爱的人,在这无以盘算的

四月,从他那里,一千名青年
从超乎等待、信任的世界里坠落,一种标志
有着没有怜悯的信仰的力量,

来献祭他们卑微的愤怒。
在南尼体内憔悴下去的是不确定性 (4)
他借此重入游戏,熟练的

一致性,公认的伟大,
他借此宣布断绝史诗般的热爱,
尽管他的灵魂能向其索要

头衔:而,离开布莱希特的舞台
进入后台的阴影之中,
他在那里对现实,学会了新的话语,不确定的

英雄以巨大的个人代价击碎束缚他的
锁链,像一位旧日偶像,对人民而言,
为他的旧时代带来新悲痛。

年轻的瑟维兄弟,我的弟弟圭多, (5)
1960年被杀的雷焦青年,
有纯洁、强劲而坚信的

双眼,神圣之光的源头,
注视着他,等待他旧日的话语。
然而,英雄已分裂,他已

缺少一种触动心灵的声音:
他诉诸那些不是理性的理性,
诉诸理性的悲伤姊妹,希望

在现实当中理解现实,拥有一种
拒绝任何极端主义,任何激进的热情。
能对他们说什么?那种现实有新的张力,

只作为它自身,人们至今
除了接受它,便没有别的途径……
革命会成为沙漠

如果一直没有胜利……对那些
想赢的人还不算太晚,但不能靠老旧的.
无望的武器的暴力……

那必须以一致性
向生命中的不一致献祭,尝试一种造物者
的对话,哪怕有违良知。

即使这个局促小国
的现实都比我们重大,这总是件可怕的事:
人必须成为它的一部分,不管那多苦……

而你如何指望他们合理,
一群焦虑之众离开——如
歌中所唱——家,新娘,

生命自身,特意以理性之名?
……
而或许南尼的一部分灵魂想
告诉这些同志们——来自另一个世界,
身穿军装,窟窿开在

他们的布尔乔亚鞋底,他们的青春
天真地渴求鲜血——
大喊:“武器在哪里?快来,我们

走,带上它们,在干草堆里,在地里,
你们竟没发现什么都未改变?
那些哭泣的还在哭泣。

你们当中那些有纯洁无辜之心的,
去到贫民窟当中,
到穷人的廉租房当中讲话,

他们的墙壁和巷陌背后
藏着可耻的瘟疫,那些知道自己
没有将来的人们的消极。

你们当中那些有心
献身于那遭诅咒的透明的,
进到工厂和学校

提醒人民这些年中什么都不曾
改变知晓的质量,永恒的借口,
权力可爱而无用的形式,却从不关乎真实。

你们当中那些服从纯正的
旧日教规的
去到那些心中空无真正激情

而长大的孩子们当中,
提醒他们新的恶
仍是并一直是这世界的分割者。最终,

你们当中那些悲惨地意外降生于
没有希望的家庭中的,将给予粗壮的肩膀,罪人的
卷发,阴郁的颧骨,无怜悯的双眼——

走吧,首先,到凯蕾丝帝家族去,到阿涅利家族去,
到瓦莱塔家族去,到那些把欧洲带到波河河岸的 (6)
公司首脑们那儿去:

为他们每个人备下的时刻即将到来
不同于他们拥有的和他们憎恨的时刻。
那些从公共利益的宝贵资产中

窃利谋私又无法律
能惩罚他们的,好嘛,那么,去用屠杀的绳索
将他们捆绑。在洛雷托广场尽头 (7)

仍有一些,重新涂绘的
气泵,在与它的命运一同归来的
春日那安宁的阳光中

呈现红色:是把它再变成一座墓场的时候了!”
……
他们正在离去……来人呐!他们正在逃走,
他们的脊背掩盖在乞丐与逃兵的
英雄大衣下……他们归去的山岭

多么宁静庄严,冲锋枪多么轻盈地
敲打着他们的屁股,太阳的
步履踏上生命的

完整形式,成为它极深处
的初态。来人呐,他们在逃跑!——回到他们
在马扎博多或维亚塔索的寂静世界…… (8)

带着破裂的头,我们的头,家中
的微薄之珍,二儿子的大头,
我弟弟重入他血腥的睡眠,独自

在枯叶之间,在前阿尔卑斯山脉
宁静的木质避难所,消失在
没完没了的星期日的金色和平中……
……
然而,这是胜利之日。(9)

1964

简注:
(1)塔利亚门托(Tagliamento),意大利东北部的网状河,从阿尔卑斯山在的里雅斯特和威尼斯之间流入亚得里亚海。下一行中的利文扎(Livenza)同为意大利河流名,两河皆流经弗留利(Friulian)乡下,帕索里尼年少时在那里度过大部分时光。
(2)帕尔米罗•陶里亚蒂(Palmiro Togliatti,1893-1964),意大利共产党和共产国际领导人。
(3)波河(Po),意大利最大河流。发源于意大利与 波河法国交界处科蒂安山脉海拔3841m的维索山,注入亚得里亚海。河流全长652km,流域面积约为7.5万平方千米。
(4)皮耶特罗•桑德罗•南尼(Pietro Sandro Nenni,1891-1980),意大利社会党领袖,在此诗诞生的1964年,美国(通过CIA)出资分裂社会党,创立并扶植强硬反共的右翼社会民主党派“无产阶级团结社会党(PSIUP)”。是年,南尼放弃了作为意大利总统候选人的提名,而支持萨拉盖特为总统候选人。
(5) 瑟维兄弟(Cervis)是在20世纪60年代初在意大利雷焦卡拉布里亚(Reggio Calabria,意大利南部港口城市)为改善工作环境进行的暴动中被纳粹杀害的两兄弟。圭多•帕索里尼(Guido Pasolini),帕索里尼的弟弟,在意大利和南斯拉夫人在争夺接壤的边境地区的战斗中被南斯拉夫共产党人杀害。
(6)凯蕾丝帝家族(Crespis)是意大利老牌纺织品和洗染业家族;阿涅利家族(Agnellis)在意大利是财富与荣耀的象征,掌控着菲亚特集团和尤文图斯俱乐部等;瓦莱塔家族(Vallettas)不详,或亦是意大利的豪商巨贾。
(7)洛雷托广场(Piazzale Loreto)是意大利米兰的一个城市广场,是第二次世界大战中两个重要事件的发生地点。1945年4月29日,贝尼托•墨索里尼、克拉拉•贝塔西和几名意大利社会共和国高级官员被执行死刑后,尸体被运到洛雷托广场,布宜诺斯艾利斯大街街角,倒吊在一个加油站顶上暴尸示众。1944年8月10日,在同一地点,法西斯曾悬挂15名米兰平民的尸体(史称“洛雷托广场屠杀”)。
(8)马扎博多(Marzabotto),意大利村庄,二战期间那里发生过大屠杀,整座村庄及其居民全被纳粹毁灭;维亚塔索(Via Tasso)是罗马的一条街,纳粹和法西斯的刑讯总部所在地。
(9)“胜利之日”指1945年4月25日,德军在意大利投降,墨索里尼在希特勒的扶植下于意大利建立的法西斯傀儡政权正式灭亡。


VICTORY
by Pier Paolo Pasolini
translated by Norman MacAfee with Luciano Martinengo


Where are the weapons?
I have only those of my reason
and in my violence there is no place

for even the trace of an act that is not
intellectual. Is it laughable
if, suggested by my dream on this

gray morning, which the dead can see
and other dead too will see but for us
is just another morning,

I scream words of struggle?
Who knows what will become of me
at noon, but the old poet is “ab joy”

who speaks like a lark or a starling or
a young man longing to die.
Where are the weapons? The old days

will not return, I know; the red
Aprils of youth are gone.
Only a dream, of joy, can open

a season of armed pain.
I who was an unarmed Partisan,
mystical, beardless, nameless,

now I sense in life the horribly
perfumed seed of the Resistance.
In the morning the leaves are still

as they once were on the Tagliamento
and Livenza—it is not a storm coming
or the night falling. It is the absence

of life, contemplating itself,
distanced from itself, intent on
understanding those terrible yet serene

forces that still fill it—aroma of April!
an armed youth for each blade of grass,
each a volunteer longing to die.
. . . . . . . . .
Good. I wake up and—for the first time
in my life—I want to take up arms.
Absurd to say it in poetry

—and to four friends from Rome, two from Parma
who will understand me in this nostalgia
ideally translated from the German, in this archeological

calm, which contemplates a sunny, depopulated
Italy, home of barbaric Partisans who descend
the Alps and Apennines, down the ancient roads...

My fury comes only at the dawn.
At noon I will be with my countrymen
at work, at meals, at reality, which raises

the flag, white today, of General Destinies.
And you, communists, my comrades/noncomrades,
shadows of comrades, estranged first cousins

lost in the present as well as the distant,
unimagined days of the future, you, nameless
fathers who have heard calls that

I thought were like mine, which
burn now like fires abandoned
on cold plains, along sleeping

rivers, on bomb-quarried mountains. . . .
. . . . . . . . .
I take upon myself all the blame (my old
vocation, unconfessed, easy work)
for our desperate weakness,

because of which millions of us,
all with a life in common, could not
persist to the end. It is over,

let us sing along, tralala: They are falling,
fewer and fewer, the last leaves of
the War and the martyred victory,

destroyed little by little by what
would become reality,
not only dear Reaction but also the birth of

beautiful social-democracy, tralala.

I take (with pleasure) on myself the guilt
for having left everything as it was:
for the defeat, for the distrust, for the dirty

hopes of the Bitter Years, tralla.
And I will take upon myself the tormenting
pain of the darkest nostalgia,

which summons up regretted things
with such truth as to almost
resurrect them or reconstruct the shattered

conditions that made them necessary (trallallallalla). . . .
. . . . . . . . .
Where have the weapons gone, peaceful
productive Italy, you who have no importance in the world?
In this servile tranquility, which justifies

yesterday’s boom, today’s bust—from the sublime
to the ridiculous—and in the most perfect solitude,
j’accuse! Not, calm down, the Government or the Latifundia

or the Monopolies—but rather their high priests,
Italy’s intellectuals, all of them,
even those who rightly call themselves

my good friends. These must have been the worst
years of their lives: for having accepted
a reality that did not exist. The result

of this conniving, of this embezzling of ideals,
is that the real reality now has no poets.
(I? I am desiccated, obsolete.)

Now that Togliatti has exited amid
the echoes from the last bloody strikes,
old, in the company of the prophets,

who, alas, were right—I dream of weapons
hidden in the mud, the elegiac mud
where children play and old fathers toil—

while from the gravestones melancholy falls,
the lists of names crack,
the doors of the tombs explode,

and the young corpses in the overcoats
they wore in those years, the loose-fitting
trousers, the military cap on their Partisan’s

hair, descend, along the walls
where the markets stand, down the paths
that join the town’s vegetable gardens

to the hillsides. They descend from their graves, young men
whose eyes hold something other than love:
a secret madness, of men who fight

as though called by a destiny different from their own.
With that secret that is no longer a secret,
they descend, silent, in the dawning sun,

and, though so close to death, theirs is the happy tread
of those who will journey far in the world.
But they are the inhabitants of the mountains, of the wild

shores of the Po, of the remotest places
on the coldest plains. What are they doing here?
They have come back, and no one can stop them. They do not hide

their weapons, which they hold without grief or joy,
and no one looks at them, as though blinded by shame
at that obscene flashing of guns, at that tread of vultures

which descend to their obscure duty in the sunlight.
. . . . . . . . .  

Who has the courage to tell them
that the ideal secretly burning in their eyes
is finished, belongs to another time, that the children

of their brothers have not fought for years,
and that a cruelly new history has produced
other ideals, quietly corrupting them?. . .

Rough like poor barbarians, they will touch
the new things that in these two decades human
cruelty has procured, things incapable of moving

those who seek justice. . . .

But let us celebrate, let us open the bottles
of the good wine of the Cooperative. . . .
To always new victories, and new Bastilles!

Rafosco, Bacò. . . .  Long life!
To your health, old friend! Strength, comrade!
And best wishes to the beautiful party!

From beyond the vineyards, from beyond the farm ponds
comes the sun: from the empty graves,
from the white gravestones, from that distant time.

But now that they are here, violent, absurd,
with the strange voices of emigrants,
hanged from lampposts, strangled by garrotes,

who will lead them in the new struggle?
Togliatti himself is finally old,
as he wanted to be all his life,

and he holds alarmed in his breast,
like a pope, all the love we have for him,
though stunted by epic affection,

loyalty that accepts even the most inhuman
fruit of a scorched lucidity, tenacious as a scabie.
“All politics is Realpolitik,” warring

soul, with your delicate anger!
You do not recognize a soul other than this one
which has all the prose of the clever man,

of the revolutionary devoted to the honest
common man (even the complicity
with the assassins of the Bitter Years grafted

onto protector classicism, which makes
the communist respectable): you do not recognize the heart
that becomes slave to its enemy, and goes

where the enemy goes, led by a history
that is the history of both, and makes them, deep down,
perversely, brothers; you do not recognize the fears

of a consciousness that, by struggling with the world,
shares the rules of the struggle over the centuries,
as through a pessimism into which hopes

drown to become more virile. Joyous
with a joy that knows no hidden agenda,
this army—blind in the blind

sunlight—of dead young men comes
and waits. If their father, their leader, absorbed
in a mysterious debate with Power and bound

by its dialectics, which history renews ceaselessly—
if he abandons them,
in the white mountains, on the serene plains,

little by little in the barbaric breasts
of the sons, hate becomes love of hate,
burning only in them, the few, the chosen.

Ah, Desperation that knows no laws!
Ah, Anarchy, free love
of Holiness, with your valiant songs!
. . . . . . . . .
I take also upon myself the guilt for trying
betraying, for struggling surrendering,
for accepting the good as the lesser evil,

symmetrical antinomies that I hold
in my fist like old habits. . . .
All the problems of man, with their awful statements

of ambiguity (the knot of solitudes
of the ego that feels itself dying
and does not want to come before God naked):

all this I take upon myself, so that I can understand,
from the inside, the fruit of this ambiguity:
a beloved man, in this uncalculated

April, from whom a thousand youths
fallen from the world beyond await, trusting, a sign
that has the force of a faith without pity,

to consecrate their humble rage.
Pining away within Nenni is the uncertainty
with which he re-entered the game, and the skillful

coherence, the accepted greatness,
with which he renounced epic affection,
though his soul could claim title

to it: and, exiting a Brechtian stage
into the shadows of the backstage,
where he learns new words for reality, the uncertain

hero breaks at great cost to himself the chain
that bound him, like an old idol, to the people,
giving a new grief to his old age.

The young Cervis, my brother Guido,
the young men of Reggio killed in 1960,
with their chaste and strong and faithful

eyes, source of the holy light,
look to him, and await his old words.
But, a hero by now divided, he lacks

by now a voice that touches the heart:
he appeals to the reason that is not reason,
to the sad sister of reason, which wants

to understand the reality within reality, with a passion
that refuses any extremism, any temerity.
What to say to them? That reality has a new tension,

which is what it is, and by now one has
no other course than to accept it. . . .
That the revolution becomes a desert

if it is always without victory. . . that it may not be
too late for those who want to win, but not with the violence
of the old, desperate weapons. . . .

That one must sacrifice coherence
to the incoherence of life, attempt a creator
dialogue, even if that goes against our conscience.

That the reality of even this small, stingy
State is greater than us, is always an awesome thing:
and one must be part of it, however bitter that is. . . .

But how do you expect them to be reasonable,
this band of anxious men who left—as
the songs say—home, bride,

life itself, specifically in the name of Reason?
. . . . . . . . .
But there may be a part of Nenni’s soul that wants
to say to these comrades—come from the world beyond,
in military clothes, with holes in the soles  

of their bourgeois shoes, and their youth
innocently thirsting for blood—
to shout: “Where are the weapons? Come on, let’s

go, get them, in the haystacks, in the earth,
don’t you see that nothing has changed?
Those who were weeping still weep.

Those of you who have pure and innocent hearts,
go and speak in the middle of the slums,
in the housing projects of the poor,

who behind their walls and their alleys
hide the shameful plague, the passivity of those
who know they are cut off from the days of the future.

Those of you who have a heart
devoted to accursèd lucidity,
go into the factories and schools

to remind the people that nothing in these years has
changed the quality of knowing, eternal pretext,
sweet and useless form of Power, never of truth.

Those of you who obey an honest
old imperative of religion
go among the children who grow

with hearts empty of real passion,
to remind them that the new evil
is still and always the division of the world. Finally,

those of you to whom a sad accident of birth
in families without hope gave the thick shoulders, the curly
hair of the criminal, dark cheekbones, eyes without pity—

go, to start with, to the Crespis, to the Agnellis,
to the Vallettas, to the potentates of the companies
that brought Europe to the shores of the Po:

and for each of them comes the hour that has no
equal to what they have and what they hate.
Those who have stolen from the common good

precious capital and whom no law can
punish, well, then, go and tie them up with the rope
of massacres. At the end of the Piazzale Loreto

there are still, repainted, a few
gas pumps, red in the quiet
sunlight of the springtime that returns

with its destiny: It is time to make it again a burial ground!”
. . . . . . . . .
They are leaving . . .  Help! They are turning away,
their backs beneath the heroic coats
of beggars and deserters. . . . How serene are

the mountains they return to, so lightly
the submachine guns tap their hips, to the tread
of the sun setting on the intact

forms of life, which has become what it was before
to its very depths.  Help, they are going away!—back to their
silent worlds in Marzabotto or Via Tasso. . . .

With the broken head, our head, humble
treasure of the family, big head of the second-born,
my brother resumes his bloody sleep, alone

among the dried leaves, in the serene
retreats of a wood in the pre-Alps, lost in
the golden peace of an interminable Sunday. . . .
. . . . . . . . .
And yet, this is a day of victory.

1964


Translation copyright © 1982, 2005 by Norman MacAfee
Copyright © 1964 by Aldo Garzanti Editore
级别: 一年级

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