At the Threshold
Be pleased if the wind that enters the orchard
by Eugenio Montale
brings back the surge of life:
here where a dead tangle of memories
sinks and founders,
there was no garden, only a reliquary.
The flapping you hear is not flight
but a commotion in the eternal womb;
you see how this strip of solitary earth
transforms itself into a crucible.
Beyond the sheer wall is rage.
If you proceed, you might bump into—
perhaps you might—the saving apparition:
here the stories are composed, the acts
that the game of the future will cancel.
Look for a broken link in the net
that holds us down, jump out and flee!
Go, I've prayed this for you—now my thirst
will be lighter; the rust less bitter. . .
translated by David Young