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Few words stripped of any virtuosity.
Voice of the verb to refuse:
formal elegance,
refined contours,
musical harmonies or dissonances,
even punctuation.
What remains?
Dry, essential, sharp poems.
Like bullets hitting a precise spot and reverberating through the whole body.
Fragments of a heart grown in Egypt and then hardened in trench warfare.
Few words born from the endless silence of the desert.
Few words that suddenly fall like grenades.
And written with pencils:
in the white spaces of received letters,
in the margins of old newspapers,
on scraps of paper carelessly stuffed into a haversack.
Ungaretti hermetic? Ungaretti "man of sorrow" rather,
for whom "an illusion is enough to give courage".
With his face turned to the stars or crushed in the mud.
We must resign ourselves: the mystery is within us.
The mystery is within us and much will remain unreachable.
To us who guard it, but cannot decipher it.
Like a treasure map missing the X.
Like a buried harbor lost forever in the crossing of millennia.
What remains then?
Few words.
Only
few
words.
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