Let us wander about the streets of Noto,
and think upon what is a thought made of.
An ultimate regard to its trees' stillness
must evoke treasured vedute unburied.
Outdoors, reticulated leisure alleys;
indoors, a boredom-filled mind.
The soul of old rows of houses and lofts
has probably disabled my assurances
about the certitude of things themselves.
Behold the mystery of things, of beings,
behold the silence of some sleeping god!
What is past made of? A piece of lace maybe?
Or a scent from no longer breathed old lace?
The sole equivalent to Noto's quietude
ought to be life's entrapping immobility.
So, what are the things that surround me made of?
Of the soul of suave, dull-weathered days?
Ah! The horizon's mystery and marasmus! ...
To dream is nothing, and not to know pointless.
These wooden cutouts, these sheltering trellises
do challenge the certainty that I'm nothing,
that I can nothing; alas, who'd be capable
of outlasting the enigma of quietness?
While life runs like a river through its bed,
let us wave an adieu to the horizon's,
let's not read, write nor think well enough properly,
and let's not sleep once the window's been closed,
as thought is slowly hit by fascination.
O immobile past! O volatile memory!