Going by your houseI have forgotten nothing;
rub, rub with time’s eraser,
nothing; erase, erase,
not even a kiss has lost its looks,
and to say how things are,
you are there, where?
lovelier than a pomegranate.
When was it that we were alive?
When did we die? The bodies
sought each other, they are still there,
but the before and after
have fled through clearings and shrubs
kicking away even
snails and lizards.
They are there, damned
in a purgatory of seeds,
in a sliver of barren sky.
But we, where are we?
Inside or outside them? Or have we become
the shadow of what they used to be.
(Translated by Luigi Bonaffini)