Whatever breath I may seem to draw in
I died on the day he did; I may move,
react; I no longer make those mistakes,
he is no longer irritated, vexed;
but what is good in me I keep alive
to offer it to him. Now for me that's
in this grass, I fold my unused body
inwards like a flower I save for him.
When I was still he made me feel alive,
now he is still, beyond, yet holds me to
him: only through him is life worth the pain.
I know he perceives me, quiet, shy, I sense
his vibrant presence, for when he sees how
I long to reach him, his hand restrains mine.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
V I:143. From B A1:73:39. Translation: Stortoni & Lillie 61. Key