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Farewell To Sicily

Hamish Henderson
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Il testo originale della poesia di Henderson trascritto da The...

L’ADDIO DELLA 51 ESIMA DIVISIONE ALLA SICILIA (SPONDE DI SICILIA)

La cornamusa e sonnolenta, il suonatore stralunato,
Non verrà a bere vino quest’oggi
Il cielo sopra Messina è oscuro
E le lucenti canne delle cornamuse sono stranite

Addio, sponde di Sicilia, addio valli e boschi radi
Non c’è più un ragazzo a piangere
E voi poveri soldati insanguinati siete sfiniti

Addio sponde di Sicilia, addio valli e boschi radi
Non c’è più casa che possa attirarvi con l’inganno
E voi poveri soldati insanguinati siete sfiniti.

Poi giù verso il lungomare
in attesa del proprio turno il traghetto è lontano
poi giù verso il lungomare
le lucenti canne delle cornamuse sono stranite

la grancassa è lucida e grande
lui non lo si vede per via delle cinghie
ha appena allungato il collo per la foto e
si lascia con la dolce Lola.

E allora addio sponde di Sicilia
Addio case e baracche di pastori
Già nello nostra mente ci sono bettole e pubs
Dove il ragazzo avrà dato appuntamento alla sua bella.

E allora accordate le cornamuse e battete con forza il tamburo tenore
Abbandonate l’equipaggiamento da questa parte del muro
Le canne lucenti sembrano tutte stranite

Addio sponde di Sicilia, addio valli e boschi radi…
FIRST ELEGY: END OF A CAMPAIGN

There are many dead in the brutish desert,
Who lie uneasy
Among the scrub in this landscape of half-wit
Stunded ill-will. For the dead land is insatiate
And necrophilous. The sand is blowing about still.
Many who for various reasons, or because
Of mere unanswerable compulsion, came here
And fought among the clutching gravestones,
Shivered and sweated,
Cried out, suffered thirst, were stoically silent, cursed
The spittering machine-guns, were homesick for Europe
And fast embedded in quicksand of Africa
Agonized and died.
And sleep now. Sleep here the sleep of the dust.

There were our own, there were the others.
Their deaths were like their lives, human and animal.
There were no gods and precious few heroes.
What they regretted when they died had nothing to do with
Race and leader, realm indivisible,
Laboured Augustan speeches or vague imperial heritage.
(They saw through that guff before the axe fell.)
Their longing turned to
The lost world glimpsed in the memory of letters:
An evening at the pictures in the friendly dark,
Two knowing conspirators smiling and whispering secrets;
Or else
A family gathering in the homely kitchen
With Mum so proud of her boys in uniform:
their thoughts trembled
Between moments of estrangement, and ecstatic moments
Of reconciliation: and their desire
Crucified itself against the unutterable shadow of someone
Whose photo was in their wallets,
Then death made his incision.

There were our own, there were the others.
Therefore, minding the great word of Glencoe’s
Son, that we should not disfigure ourselves
With villainy of hatred; and seeing that all
Have gone down like curs into anonymous silence,
I will bear witness for I knew the others.
Seeing that littoral and interior are alike indifferent
And the birds are drawn again to our welcoming north
Why should I not sing them, the dead, the innocent?


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