He is about to kick the bucket,
his last breath nearly to become
a dense mist shrouding La Giudecca...
Ezra Pound wistful stares the little finger
of Olga Rudge, tiny little finger, colour de rose.
There she stands, as ever in the last ten years
near the carcass of the old poet who lies down in bed
by the window overlooking the canal side.
The mist of his breath also enshrouds the dusk
The gondoliers' shadows sing loud Puccini arias,
the seagulls hover over the isle of San Michele,
the belfry of San Giorgio Maggiore
like birds of ill omen.
Ezra Pound suddenly kiss Olga Rudge's
little finger without respite.
In ecstasy sucks it like a toddler
the wet nurse's teat. He begs for more...
But no one will never know
how was that last gesture,
his last breath
colour de rose,
no one except that little finger
blossoming in that lifeless mouth.
0 comentarios:
Publicar un comentario