Salvatore Quasimodo, 'To a Hostile Poet', from Il falso e vero verde (Milan, 1956)
A un poeta nemico
Sulla sabbia di Gela colore della paglia
mi stendevo fanciullo in riva al mare
antico di Grecia con molti sogni nei pugni
stretti nel petto. Là Eschilo esule
misurò versi e passi sconsolati,
in quel golfo arso l’aquila lo vide
e fu l’ultimo giorno. Uomo del Nord, che mi vuoi
minimo o morto per tua pace, spera:
la madre di mio padre avrà cent’anni
a nuova primavera. Spera: che io domani
non giochi col tuo cranio giallo per le piogge.
To a Hostile Poet
On the straw-coloured sands of Gela, as a child, I would lie by the ancient sea of Greece, clenching many dreams in my fists, on my breast. In the same place, the exiled Aeschylus, forlorn, measured his verses and lines, in that parched gulf the eagle saw him, and it was his last day. Man of the North who want me reduced, or dead, for your peace, just you wish: my father’s mother will be one hundred years old next spring. Hope that tomorrow I shall not be playing with your skull, yellowed by the rains.
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