The tacit friendship of the moon
(I am misquoting Virgil) goes with you
since that now lost and time-devoured night,
or coming on of evening, when your blurry
eyes deciphered it, you thought forever,
in a garden or a patio now dust.
Forever? I am sure that someone, sometime,
will have the heart to tell you truthfully
Never again will you behold the moon.
You have used up the exact, invariable
number of times your destiny allows.
No use opening now all the world’s windows.
It is too late. You won’t be seeing her.

We live discovering and then forgetting
that customary sweetness of the night.
You must look hard. This time could be the last.

translated with R. G. Barnes

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 10 Number 4, on page 37
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