Dialect Poetry of Southern Italy (Italian Poetry in Translation Book 2)

En attendant Godot

Waiting for Godot ─ this death
that will not come ─ I’d give you flames,
you cold thing; I’d warm your glassy eyes
in my own hands. I’d shelter you
inside my silken handkerchief.
O death
and life. These frigid, long
hands, these oily stares
that slither over my body
as you burst into flames, this stiff neck
with head to the winds. I’d shelter you
completely inside my cupped hands.
I’d warm you with my breath.
But you can’t hear a thing!
(Translated by Gaetano Cipolla)