Bright mornings,
when the blue is magic that doesn’t fool,
growing immense with life,
swollen river with no banks, no limit,
flows forever,
and stays - eternally.
Now there are sounds on the road,
the crack in the window,
the stone that falls
on the mirror of the lake and ripples it.
And the calling of the boys
and the fluent chitchat of sparrows
flitting between the eaves
are trellises of gold
on a vivid deep of cobalt,
ephemeral...
Here, and lost in the net of echoes,
in the breath of hoar
that falls on the thinned trees
and draws from them a murmur
of restless shore,
you could almost, and it shakes you,
engrossed heart dissolve
and beat no more! But always when you long for this
you beat stronger like
a clock striking in a hotel bedroom
at the first tremor of dawn.
And you feel then
even if they say again that you may
stop halfway, or on the high seas,
that there’s no rest for us,
only the road, more road,
and always the journey to begin again.
Eugenio Montale (A galla) P.88
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