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Beyond the limits of urban landscape
ZUBENELGENUBI
There are really days like this
under bland equinox sky
pink in glowing sunset ash;
days like these when
the color of the city sometimes changes,
days discovered only in the evening,
suspend the prose of life
There are days like these, when
the line of the horizon is set ablaze,
youcannot find theharmonies, but the resonances,
a rough vibration of metal
heard on the rope of the vertebrae,
atmospheric pressure on the eardrum,
ghost-like humming of the white noise
that counterpoints the bass of breath.
«Dry, red and sweet is the wold’s skeletal
landscape», the hard never-ending ground
of all ended tales
of the bodies of the men made stone
a sea of voices confused by time,
what you have thrown with both hands
in the holes of days, the hollow of years
in the resentful mixture of the past,
trusting in the project, in the mould,
believing in the building, in the structure:
but there was nothing written
and each building grows
without pillars, without wisdom,
with the intellect of the last moment
on this inconsistent foundations
This is why I like the deserts
in the midst of the undone suburbs
of abandoned industrial zones.
Under the skies of motionless mists,
western skies abandoned by history,
alone in the solitude of a new day
while remaining locked in cars
still on the edge of the city in streets
wider and wider and emptier of traffic,
you do not have to wait for a cinemascope,
the roundup back in a long reverse shot
that takes all and says it all:
our steps will tell
the plot of the eyes and the looks,
to build each time the climate
without listening to the requirements
our hard lot, and of the humble place
(not even those of bitter wars)
of all sad or happy fairy tales.
This sense of solitude enters the eye
through a hundred corners and different faces,
in the insect glance of a thousand
windows of council homes
the immense expanse of the sodium-vapour.
It is a log of other cities,
a live view on journeys,
points of departure and return
is the calculation of steps and fatigue;
all smallest cities collected
under the plural skies of the evening,
Here you can find new pleasures:
the screech of neon among cicadas,
artificial light in sunrise,
the smell of diesel oil, of tar:
so far we have never talked about it
at the edge of grass, we thought
they were only a small load
to take away and return to the real truth,
instead they are made to last
and become hard stone, earth, soil,
story, meaning, history, in short, this is
the layer of another generation.
You feel thoughts in the spinal plexuses,
along the veins and through the bone
forming in proteins and tendons, tensions,
loosening up and in rhythm and breath play
pebbles, dust, bricks,
clear splendour of sky and cement.
At the bottom of the roads of the plain
at an unusual angle to the universe
summer clouds sit idle.