há uns anos. imagens que se perdem, apesar da fotografia.

L'antica leggenda narra che il re Mida inseguì a lungo nella
foresta il saggio Sileno, seguace di Dionisio, senza prenderlo.
Quando quello gli cadde infine fra le mani, il re domandò
quale fosse la cosa migliore e più desiderabile per l'uomo.
- F. Nietzsche

Era già sera in terra,
nel caos e nella pena,
quando improvvisa mi arrivò la voce
tua che saliva le scale.
Allora, stretto contro lo spioncino,
dietro la porta, ho atteso
per vederti apparire deformata,
pupilla e pesciolino,
sperduta nell'acquario della lente.
E mentre tutto frana senza senso,
sali le scale e sembri dirmi: "Vivi
per me." Torni da pallavolo,
ma nella sacca mi porti l'antidoto,
tu stessa, ampolla, antidoto del male.

***

A antiga lenda narra que o rei Midas perseguiu longamente na
floresta o sábio Sileno, seguidor de Dionísio, sem chegar a alcançá-
lo. Quando finalmente Sileno caiu em suas mãos, o rei lhe
perguntou qual era a coisa melhor e mais desejável para o homem.
- F. Nietzsche

Já era noite na terra,
no caos e no pesar,
quando de repente chegou tua
voz subindo as escadas.
Então, colado no olho mágico,
atrás da porta, esperei
para te ver aparecer deformada,
pupila e peixinho,
perdida no aquário da lente.
E enquanto tudo desaba sem sentido,
sobes as escadas e pareces me dizer: "Vive
para mim." Estás voltando do vôlei,
mas na bolsa me trazes o antídoto,
tu mesma, ampola, antídoto do mal.

Infanzia del lavoro / Infância do trabalho

Guarda questa bambina
che sta imparando a leggere:
tende le labbra, si concentra
tira su una parola dopo l'altra,
pesca, e la voce fa da canna,
fila, si flette, strappa
guizzanti queste lettere
ora alte nell'aria
luccicanti
al sole della pronuncia.

***

Olha essa menina
que está aprendendo a ler:
mexe os lábios, se concentra
fisga uma palavra após a outra,
pesca, e a voz como a vara
vai, se curva, apanha
essas letras coleantes
agora altas no ar
reluzentes
sob o sol da pronúncia.

[Valerio Magrelli, trad. Patricia Peterle e Lucia Wataghin]

On empathy

what it sounds like is a bird breaking small bones against glass. the least of them, a sparrow, of course. you’re about to serve dinner and this is the scene. blame the bird, the impertinent windows, try not to think of the inconvenience of blood splattering violet in the dusk. how can you eat after this? do not think of whom to blame when the least of us hurdles into the next moment. a pane opening into another. the least of us spoiling your meal.

~

the smell of it will be smoke and rank. you will mutter about this for days, the injustice of splatter on your window. foolish bird. civilization. house with the view. fucking bird feeder. it will take you a week, while the flesh starts to rot under thinning feathers, while the blood has congealed and stuck, for you to realize that no one is coming to take the body. it is your dead bird. it is your glass. you have options you think. hire out. move out. leave it for the bigger blacker birds.

~

you will taste rotting just above the top of your tongue. so much, that you check yourself to make sure that it is not you. the bird deserves something. you go to the closet, pick out a shoe box. discount? designer? you start to think of how it has come to this: pondering your mortality through a bird. a dead bird. never-mind. you don’t find it a problem not running into windows.

~

it is an eyesore and we start to gather as large billows in your yard. you marvel at us, beautiful, collecting and loosening our dark bodies from white sky to your grass. and then it comes. more bones and blood. one by one crashing into the closed pane. mindless birds. brown and gray feathers. filthy pests. another. fucking feeder. we look like billions lifting into flight and then—shatter.

~

you might find a delicate humility in the art of cleaning glass. while you work, you sustain tiny slivers of opened flesh. tips of your fingers sing. shards, carnage, it has become too much. you are careful to pick up all that you can see. you call a repairman. you are careful to pick up all that you can see. you throw everything into big shiny trash bags. you are careful to pick up all that you can see. you consider french doors. you are careful to pick up all that you can see and find more with each barefoot trip through your bloodbath house. 

[Bettina Judd]