Sette poesie di Wallace Stevens tradotte da Nadia Fusini THE POEMS OF OUR CLIMATE I Clear water in a briliiant bowl, Pink and white carnations. The light In the room more like a snowy air, Reflecting snow. A newly-fallen snow At the end of winter when afternoons return. Pink and white carnations - one desires So much more than that. The day itself Is simplified: a bowl of white, Cold, a cold porcelain, low and round, With nothing more than the carnations there. II Say even that this complete simplicity Stripped one of ali one's torments, concealed The eviliy compounded, vita! I And made it fresh in a world of white, A world of clear water, briliiant-edged, Stili one would want more, one would need more, More than a world of white and snowy scents. III There would stili remain the never-resting mind, So that one would want to escape, come back To what had been so long composed. The imperfect is our paradise. Note that, in this bitterness, delight, Since the imperfect is so hot in us, Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds. 88
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy MTExMDY2NQ==