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 smile
Is 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 Other
For 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 ritual
respected 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 islands
but upon the terror of not being,
the wind streams,
the divine wind
that 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 instant
in which this desperate effort can cease;
you cling to almost anything,
begetting the desire to kiss you.
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 smile
Is 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 Other
For 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)
to open and close windows as if in a ritual
respected 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 islands
but upon the terror of not being,
the wind streams,
the divine wind
that 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 instant
in which this desperate effort can cease;
you cling to almost anything,
begetting the desire to kiss you.