[identity profile] pashed.livejournal.com
The hills and banks of the Po are a burnt yellow,
and we've climbed here to get ripe in the sun.
This woman is telling me—as if we were friends—
Tomorrow I'm abandoning Turin, I'll never come back.
I'm tired of spending my whole life in a prison.

A faint scent of earth's in the air, as over the trees
in Turin, right now, everyone labors in prison.
I'll go back to my parents', where I can at least be alone
without crying and thinking about people with lives.
I'll get me an apron and take comfort in being rude
to my family; I'll spend the whole winter indoors.

In the country, November's a beautiful month:
the earth-colored leaves, the fog in the morning
and the sun breaking through it. This to myself
as I breathe in the smell of the cold morning sun.
I'm leaving because Turin's too beautiful now:
I like wandering through it and watching the people,
but instead I'm cooped up until everything's dark,
to suffer the evenings alone.
She wants me close by
to look for a friend. Can I stay alone like that?
Day and night—the office—the stairs—the bedroom.
If I go for a walk in the evening, there's nowhere to go,
I come home mean, the next day I don't want to get up.
Turin would be so beautiful—if you could enjoy it—
if you just had to breathe.
The piazzas and streets
give off the same scent of warm sun
as these trees. You can go back to your town.
But Turin is the most beautiful of all towns.
If I were to find a friend today, I'd stay here forever.
[identity profile] projectmatt.livejournal.com
Death Agony
-Cesare Pavese

I'll wander around the streets until I'm dead tired
I'll learn to live alone and look every passing face
square in the eye and still stay what I am.
This coolness rising in me and reaching for my veins
is a morning waking I've never felt before,
never so real. Except I feel stronger
than my body, and this morning's shiver is colder than ever.

The mornings I had when I was twenty seem long ago.
And tomorrow, twenty-one: tomorrow I'll walk down the streets
I remember ever cobble and the shafts of sunlight.
Starting tomorrow people will begin to see me
and I’ll walk straight and stop for a while
and inspect myself in the windows. There were mornings once
when I was young and didn’t know it. I didn’t even know
the person passing was me—a woman, her own
mistress. The skinny little girl I used to be
was wakened by a wail of grief that lasted for years:
now it’s as though that grief had never been.

And all I want is colors. Colors don’t cry,
they’re like a waking up. Tomorrow the colors
will all come back. Every woman will walk down the street,
every body will be a color—even the children.
This body of mine will wear light red
will live again after all those colorless years.
I’ll feel the glances of men go gliding around me
and I’ll know I’m me: just a look and I’ll see
I’m there, like other people. In the cool of the mornings
I’ll step out in the streets, I’ll go looking for colors.

March 2025

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