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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 |
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Notes: V I:143. From B A1:73:39. Translation: Stortoni & Lillie 61. Key |
