Roso by dreams
not completed, for traces
Sleepless route, the country's bread
ago
mount the hill of life. You
its crumb mixtures
our names again, I will go button - to each finger
an eye that looks like your -,
and try to force a passage
because of vigils
I can come to you , in the mouth
the auction clear: the candle
my hunger.
(Paul Celan, from Atemwende, Turn of breath )
certainty that these poems say very important things, to decipher hieroglyphs, replacement of prayers not only can more pronounced. There are dreams that made "gnaw", digging into the soul. And if they make anguish would stop? There are tracks that should be followed by sacrificing sleep research. They lead the country bread that rises on the mountain of life. Just a crumb of that bread, then knead again for food - as God made for Adam with the mud - our names. Who is the you that poem? Is it so resolutely denied that God, the God who rises from nothing? Our names are mixed another volta, di nuovo. E continua la queste di un varco che consenta di giungere, vincendo ancora una volta il sonno, quel “tu” evocato, invocato, portando nella bocca un asta, una lancia non più assassina ma luminosa, una candela che testimonia la fame di pane, la fame di vita…
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