Poem
Antonella Anedda
II
I didn’t want names for unknown deadyet I wanted them to exist
I wanted an anonymous tongue
– mine –
to speak of many anonymous deaths.
What we call peace
has only the brief relief of truce.
If name is also reaching oneself
none of these dead has reached his destiny.
There are but places, those of an island
from which to scan the Continent
the east – its wars
the dust they cast to confuse
the verdict: we are not saved
we do not save
other than with an oblique courage
with a gesture
of minimum light.
© Translation: 2004, Antonella Anedda
II
II
Non volevo nomi per morti sconosciutieppure volevo che esistessero
volevo che una lingua anonima
– la mia –
parlasse di molte morti anonime.
Ciò che chiamiamo pace
ha solo il breve sollievo della tregua.
Se nome è anche raggiungere se stessi
nessuno di questi morti ha raggiunto il suo destino.
Non ci sono che luoghi, quelli di un’isola
da cui scrutare il Continente
l'oriente – le sue guerre
la polvere che gettano a confondere
il verdetto: noi non siamo salvi
noi non salviamo
se non con un coraggio obliquo
con un gesto
di minima luce.
© 1999, Antonella Anedda
From: Notti di pace occidentale
Publisher: Donzelli, Roma
From: Notti di pace occidentale
Publisher: Donzelli, Roma
Poems
Poems of Antonella Anedda
Close
II
I didn’t want names for unknown deadyet I wanted them to exist
I wanted an anonymous tongue
– mine –
to speak of many anonymous deaths.
What we call peace
has only the brief relief of truce.
If name is also reaching oneself
none of these dead has reached his destiny.
There are but places, those of an island
from which to scan the Continent
the east – its wars
the dust they cast to confuse
the verdict: we are not saved
we do not save
other than with an oblique courage
with a gesture
of minimum light.
© 2004, Antonella Anedda
From: Notti di pace occidentale
From: Notti di pace occidentale
II
I didn’t want names for unknown deadyet I wanted them to exist
I wanted an anonymous tongue
– mine –
to speak of many anonymous deaths.
What we call peace
has only the brief relief of truce.
If name is also reaching oneself
none of these dead has reached his destiny.
There are but places, those of an island
from which to scan the Continent
the east – its wars
the dust they cast to confuse
the verdict: we are not saved
we do not save
other than with an oblique courage
with a gesture
of minimum light.
© 2004, Antonella Anedda
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