Salvatore Quasimodo: Wind at Tindari

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Salvatore Quasimodo

(1901-1968)

Wind at Tindari

Tindari, I know you

mild between broad hills, overhanging the waters

of the god’s sweet islands.

Today, you confront me

and break into my heart.

I climb airy peaks, precipices,

following the wind in the pines,

and the crowd of them, lightly accompanying me,

fly off into the air,

wave of love and sound,

and you take me to you,

you from whom I wrongly drew

evil, and fear of silence, shadow,

– refuge of sweetness, once certain –

and death of spirit.

It is unknown to you, that country

where each day I go down deep

to nourish secret syllables.

A different light strips you, behind the windows

clothed in night,

and another joy than mine

lies against you.

Exile is harsh

and the search, for harmony, that ended in you

changes today

to a precocious anxiousness for death,

and every love is a shield against sadness,

a silent stair in the gloom,

where you station me

to break my bitter bread.

Return, serene Tindari,

stir me, sweet friend,

to raise myself to the sky from the rock,

so that I might shape fear, for those who do not know

what deep wind has searched me.

Salvatore Quasimodo poetry

kempis.nl poetry magazine

Fleurs du Mal Magazine