At Padua, they said, the friends,
"I knew him also."
Nearby, the grumble of dirty water,
of a dirty factory:
stupendous in the silence.
Because it was night. "I
knew him also."
Sharpening the thought
of you who are now
neither subject nor object,
neither plain speech nor jargon,
neither quiescence nor motion,
nor even that
for which my eyes
have threaded the eyes of needles,
negating you not
enough.
So be it: still I
believe with as much conviction
in all my nothingness.
That is why I haven't lost you.
Or rather, that the more of you I lose, the more you lose yourself,
the more alike we are, the closer we become.
—translated from the Italian by Wayne Chambliss
To read more poems by Andrea Zanzotto, please click here to purchase JUBILAT 8
