Blog e DIMITRI

Make your pain into a harp.
Become a nightingale,
become a flower.
When bitter years arrive,
make your pain into a harp
and sing the one song.

Don’t bind your wound
but with the branches of the rose.
I give you wanton myrrh
- for balm - and opium.
Don’t bind your wound,
your purple blood.

Tell the gods to “let me die!”
but hold on to the glass.
Buck against your days when
there’s a festival for you.
Tell the gods to “let me die!”
but say it with a laugh.

Make your pain into a harp.
Refresh your lips
at the lips of your wound.
One dawn, one evening,
make your pain into a harp
and laugh, and die.

Like beautiful bodies of the dead who had not grown old
and they shut them, with tears, in a magnificent mausoleum,
with roses at the head and jasmine at the feet –
this is what desires resemble that have passed
without fulfillment; with none of them having achieved
a night of sensual delight, or a bright morning.

Body, remember not only how much you were loved,
not only the beds on which you lay,
but also those desires which for you
plainly glowed in the eyes,
and trembled in the voice — and some
chance obstacle made them futile.
Now that all belongs to the past,
it is almost as if you had yielded
to those desires too — remember,
how they glowed, in the eyes looking at you;
how they trembled in the voice, for you, remember, body.