Farewell To Sicily
Hamish HendersonIl testo originale della poesia di Henderson trascritto da The... | |
L’ADDIO DELLA 51 ESIMA DIVISIONE ALLA SICILIA (SPONDE DI SICILIA) La cornamusa e sonnolenta, il suonatore stralunato, Non verrà a bere vino quest’oggi Il cielo sopra Messina è oscuro E le lucenti canne delle cornamuse sono stranite Addio, sponde di Sicilia, addio valli e boschi radi Non c’è più un ragazzo a piangere E voi poveri soldati insanguinati siete sfiniti Addio sponde di Sicilia, addio valli e boschi radi Non c’è più casa che possa attirarvi con l’inganno E voi poveri soldati insanguinati siete sfiniti. Poi giù verso il lungomare in attesa del proprio turno il traghetto è lontano poi giù verso il lungomare le lucenti canne delle cornamuse sono stranite la grancassa è lucida e grande lui non lo si vede per via delle cinghie ha appena allungato il collo per la foto e si lascia con la dolce Lola. E allora addio sponde di Sicilia Addio case e baracche di pastori Già nello nostra mente ci sono bettole e pubs Dove il ragazzo avrà dato appuntamento alla sua bella. E allora accordate le cornamuse e battete con forza il tamburo tenore Abbandonate l’equipaggiamento da questa parte del muro Le canne lucenti sembrano tutte stranite Addio sponde di Sicilia, addio valli e boschi radi… | FIRST ELEGY: END OF A CAMPAIGN There are many dead in the brutish desert, Who lie uneasy Among the scrub in this landscape of half-wit Stunded ill-will. For the dead land is insatiate And necrophilous. The sand is blowing about still. Many who for various reasons, or because Of mere unanswerable compulsion, came here And fought among the clutching gravestones, Shivered and sweated, Cried out, suffered thirst, were stoically silent, cursed The spittering machine-guns, were homesick for Europe And fast embedded in quicksand of Africa Agonized and died. And sleep now. Sleep here the sleep of the dust. There were our own, there were the others. Their deaths were like their lives, human and animal. There were no gods and precious few heroes. What they regretted when they died had nothing to do with Race and leader, realm indivisible, Laboured Augustan speeches or vague imperial heritage. (They saw through that guff before the axe fell.) Their longing turned to The lost world glimpsed in the memory of letters: An evening at the pictures in the friendly dark, Two knowing conspirators smiling and whispering secrets; Or else A family gathering in the homely kitchen With Mum so proud of her boys in uniform: their thoughts trembled Between moments of estrangement, and ecstatic moments Of reconciliation: and their desire Crucified itself against the unutterable shadow of someone Whose photo was in their wallets, Then death made his incision. There were our own, there were the others. Therefore, minding the great word of Glencoe’s Son, that we should not disfigure ourselves With villainy of hatred; and seeing that all Have gone down like curs into anonymous silence, I will bear witness for I knew the others. Seeing that littoral and interior are alike indifferent And the birds are drawn again to our welcoming north Why should I not sing them, the dead, the innocent? |