so I came to the days of the Resistance I didn’t know anything but style it was a style made totally of light memorable recognition of sun. It could never fade not even for an instant even as Europe trembled on its deadliest evening we escaped from Casarsa with our stuff in a cart to a ruined village among canals and vineyards it was pure light my brother left, it was a mute morning March, in a train, disguised his pistol in a book it was pure light he lived a long time in the mountains which shone like paradise in the blue gloom of Friulian plains it was pure light in the attic of our farmhouse my mother always stared at those mountains hopeless, she saw the future it was pure light with a few poor people I lived a glorious life, persecuted by despicable rhetoric it was pure light the day of death came Independence Day, the martyred world knew itself again in the light… the light was the thought of justice I didn’t know what kind of justice all light equal to all other light then it changed, the light like an uncertain morning a waxing dawn that spread all over Friulian fields and canals struggling workers in the light the rising dawn was a light I mean beyond the eternity of style in history, justice has been the realization of a humane distribution of money, hope maybe, brighter than that new light Copyright © 2015 by Brandon Brown. Used with permission of the translator. |
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