You give, you scatter gifts, you need to give,But your gift was given by Him, like all;And it is a Nothing, the gift of No one;I feign receiving;I thank you, sincerely grateful;But the weak, fleeting smileIs born not of shyness;It is the dismay, more terrible, far more terrible,Of having a separate body, in the realms of being—If it is a sin,If it’s not simply an accident; but in place of the OtherFor me there is a void in the cosmos,A void in the cosmos,And from there, you sing.Pier Paolo Pasolini - “Timor di me?”—“Fear for me?”(ποιήμα γραμμένο για την Μαρία Κάλλας)
Allow the little girl to be queen,to open and close windows as if in a ritualrespected by guests, servants, faraway spectators.And yet she, she, the little girl—if she is neglected for only one moment,she feels lost forever;ah, not upon motionless islandsbut upon the terror of not being,the wind streams,the divine windthat brings not healing, but ever more sickness;and you seek to stop her, she who would turn back,“La presenza” (ακόμα ένα ποιήμα γραμμένο για την Κάλλας) there isn’t a day, an hour, an instantin which this desperate effort can cease;you cling to almost anything,begetting the desire to kiss you.
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