I do, do apologize if tonight I am using again the list an archive
(precious), but neither my print nor my word-document tools are storing my
poem (its content maybe being rejected by the computer's mind, possibly:
oh, what a disaster). So, please, you are dispensed from taking in again
the bitter syrup of my ever bitterer poem, again. Although, in my role as
the list- doctor, I would prescribe and recommend to you to take a little
bit of it…one two spoons before bed time….). Ermi
“Malattia”
Estremo scenario. L' infermiera biancamente s’ avvicina al mio letto.
Scrutina le mie varie ferite. Per esempio,
quella sul mio polso sinistro. Il ruscelletto di sangue brunito
che un tempo fluiva lungo le mie vene verso la valle del cuore.
Il mondo, cara benefattrice, il mondo
è fango. E così il resto.
Anche da qui, i suoi vestimenti sembrano sexy,
(perfino)da questa severa soglia.
Ed io, nelle mie membrane assottigliate, nei mie pensieri di traliccio |(
o se si vuole, nelle mie follie) ben vedo il mondo come morbo,
malattia, di cui non esiste ancora terapia.
Erminia Passannanti
“Disease”
The ultimate scenario. The nurse whitely approaches my bed.
She scrutinizes my several wounds. For instance,
the one on my left wrist. The rivulet of darkened blood which
once flowed down my veins towards the valley of the heart.
The world, my advocate, the world
is mud. And so it is the rest.
Also from here, her garments appear quite sexy,
(even) from this severe threshold.
And I, in my thinning membranes, my ticking thoughts, (or if you want, my
insanities)
I firmly see the world as a malaise,
a disease, not cure has been yet found for.
Erminia Passannanti, 12. 1. 2002
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