Riot
The dead one is twisted and doesn’t look at the stars:
his hair is glued to the cobbles. The night is colder.
Those who’re alive go back home, shaking over it.
It is difficult to go with them, they all disperse
and one climbs the stairs, one goes down the basement.
There are some who go till dawn and ruin on a meadow
under the sun. Tomorrow someone will be sniggering,
desperate, at work. Then this one will be over, too.
When they sleep, they look like the dead one: if there’s a woman
the scent is heavier, but still they look dead.
Everyone clasps twisted to his bed
as to the red macadam: the long labour,
since dawn, is worth a short agony.
A grimy darkness clots on each body.
Only, that dead one is lying under the stars.
The heap of rags also looks dead, which the sun
strongly warms and leans against the short wall. Sleeping
in the street demonstrates trust in the world.
There is a beard in the rags and flies run in it
busy; the passers-by move in the street
like flies; the ragged man is part of the street.
Misery covers titters with beard
just like grass, and gives a placid look. This old man
who might have died twisted, in blood,
looks instead like a thing and is alive. So
blood apart, everything is a part of the street.
And yet, on the street stars have witnessed blood.
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Originally published at http://eliomarpa.wordpress.com on May 20, 2016.
Working Wearies, a retranslation of Pavese’s Lavorare Stanca, is available on Amazon here
