E benché sia stato breve, esiguo, nulla
degno d’essere stato tenuto così a lungo, io lo ricordo,
come fosse venuto da dentro, uno degli scenari
che la mente monta per sé, notte su notte, solo
per separarsene, rapida e senza preavviso. Il sole
inondava il fondovalle, divampava sulle finestre
del paese affacciate a occidente. Le strade scintillavano come
fiumi,
e piante, cespugli, nubi vennero travolti dall’alluvione,
e nulla fu risparmiato – non il divano su cui sedevamo,
non i tappeti, né gli amici che guardavano fisso il vuoto.
Tutto affogava nel fuoco dorato. Poi Philip
posò il bicchiere e disse: "Questa mano è solo una
in un’infinita serie di mani. Pensate…"
E finì così. La sera s’andò spegnendo e scurendo
finché l‘orlo occidentale del cielo assunse
l’aspetto violaceo di un’ ecchimosi, e tutti si alzarono
esclamando che gran tramonto era stato. Accadde tempo fa,
e fu fuori dal comune, ma poi accadde altro…
Un grido, quasi oltre la nostra capacita di udire, s’alzò, sempre
più alto,
come dall’altra sponda del tempo, fino a toccarci come null’altro,
e così
leggero che avremmo potuto vivere tutta una vita e non
avvertirlo mai.
Non ho avuto idea cosa significasse fino ad adesso.
Mark Strand
Luminism
And though it was brief, and slight, and nothing
To have been held onto so long, I remember it,
As if it had come from within, one of the scenes
The mind sets for itself, night after night, only
To part from, quickly and without warning. Sunlight
Flooded the valley floor and blazed on the town’s
Westward facing windows. The streets shimmered like rivers,
And trees, bushes, and clouds were caught in the spill,
And nothing was spared, not the couch we sat on,
Nor the rugs, nor our friends, staring off into space.
Everything drowned in the golden fire. Then Philip
Put down his glass and said: “This hand is just one
In an infinite series of hands. Imagine.”
And that was it. The evening dimmed and darkened
Until the western rim of the sky took on
The purple look of a bruise, and everyone stood
And said what a great sunset it had been. This was a while ago,
And it was remarkable, but something else happened then—
A cry, almost beyond our hearing, rose and rose,
As if across time, to touch us as nothing else would,
And so lightly we might live out our lives and not know.
I had no idea what it meant until now.
To have been held onto so long, I remember it,
As if it had come from within, one of the scenes
The mind sets for itself, night after night, only
To part from, quickly and without warning. Sunlight
Flooded the valley floor and blazed on the town’s
Westward facing windows. The streets shimmered like rivers,
And trees, bushes, and clouds were caught in the spill,
And nothing was spared, not the couch we sat on,
Nor the rugs, nor our friends, staring off into space.
Everything drowned in the golden fire. Then Philip
Put down his glass and said: “This hand is just one
In an infinite series of hands. Imagine.”
And that was it. The evening dimmed and darkened
Until the western rim of the sky took on
The purple look of a bruise, and everyone stood
And said what a great sunset it had been. This was a while ago,
And it was remarkable, but something else happened then—
A cry, almost beyond our hearing, rose and rose,
As if across time, to touch us as nothing else would,
And so lightly we might live out our lives and not know.
I had no idea what it meant until now.
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