There is a time to understand
in the silence of a cold kitchen,
glass jars filled with cornflakes and coffee beans,
boiled broccoli bubbling away for who knows how long.
Maybe they’re ready—I’m not sure.
A violinist plays Ennio Morricone in the room next door.
It takes real guts to bear beautiful music
without making much fuss, without remembering everything,
without whining like little girls.
My dentist said yesterday:
there’s a time to understand and one to choose.
And he went on: whatever comes, it's for the best.
With four metal instruments in my mouth, I could only tear up.
To choose.
To choose like knights in battle,
prudent surgeons, snakes,
gamblers,
like clear-headed drunks,
with the solemn pure courage
of a white dove on the altar.
And I stand up
in the silence of this kitchen
—polished black marble, LED lamps—
I don’t feel like calling anyone,
I turn off the stove.
There are things it’s better you just do.
And I don’t feel like saying anything else.
And my poetic vein—as my friends love to say—is going to hell,
but then again,
I’m getting a bit older too.
(Taliento C, Oct 2019)
Nessun commento:
Posta un commento