Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Adriana Zarri, epitafio

«No me vistan de negro: es triste y fúnebre. Ni de blanco, porque es
soberbio y retórico. Vístanme de flores amarillas y rojas, y con alas
de pajarillos. Y Tú, Señor, mira mis manos. Tal vez me han puesto un
rosario, o una cruz. Pero se equivocaron. En las manos tengo hojas
verdes y sobre la cruz, tu resurrección. No coloquen sobre mi tumba un
mármol frío, con las mentiras acostumbradas para consolar a los vivos.
Dejen que la tierra escriba, en primavera, un epitafio de yerbas. Allí
se dirá que viví y que espero. Entonces, Señor, tú escribirás tu
nombre y el mío, unidos como dos pétalos de amapolas».

Non mi vestite di nero:
è triste e funebre.
Non mi vestite di bianco:
è superbo e retorico.
Vestitemi a fiori gialli e rossi
e con ali di uccelli.
E tu, Signore, guarda le mie mani.
Forse c’è una corona.
ci hanno messo una croce.
Hanno sbagliato.
In mano ho foglie verdi
e sulla croce,
la tua resurrezione.
E, sulla tomba,
non mi mettete marmo freddo
con sopra le solite bugie
che consolano i vivi.
Lasciate solo la terra
che scriva, a primavera,
un’epigrafe d’erba.
E dirà
che ho vissuto,
che attendo.
E scriverà il mio nome e il tuo,
uniti come due bocche di papaveri.

Adriana Zarri

Monday, April 18, 2011

50 years old

Bonhoeffer: “Who Am I?”

Who am I? They often tell me
I stepped from my cell’s confinement
Calmly, cheerfully, firmly,
Like a squire from his country-house.
Who am I? They often tell me
I used to speak to my warders
Freely and friendly and clearly,
As though it were mine to command.
Who am I? They also tell me
I bore the days of misfortune
Equally, smilingly, proudly,
Like one accustomed to win.

Am I then really all that which other men tell of?
Or am I only what I myself know of myself?
Restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage,
Struggling for breath, as though hands were
compressing my throat,
Yearning for colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds,
Thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness,
Tossing in expectation of great events,
Powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,
Weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making,
Faint, and ready to say farewell to it all?

Who am I? This or the other?
Am I one person today and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others,
And before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling?
Or is something within me still like a beaten army,
Fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?
Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, Thou knowest, O God, I am Thine!

D. Bonhoeffer
March 4,1946