MARIO LUZI
Faithful to Life
The city on Sunday
quite late
when there's peace
except a radio drones
out of the bowels
of the dark wharves
and for him who enters the wide slit of a street
cut clean through the quay it goes
swimmingly till the spasm: a human being
flattened among drains and half-constructed buildings.
Respite, yes, but
over there on the asphalt someone is dying
among a few strangers
who stop and gather round the accident,
and we are here by fate or chance together,
you and I, companions of a few hours
on this mad globe
beneath the two-edged sword
of judgment or remission,
life faithful to life,
all that's grown in your breast–
where is it leading, I wonder,
does it descend or rise in starts towards its beginning ...
though no matter, it's our life, that's all.
Homecoming
And now the holiday leads him
to the heart of his old city
agog on a weekday.
