yeah, like that. sort of.
some of you may understand why a poem, originally italian, then translated by its italian author into good french, and then, of course, presented to you in a blog that is written in bad american by someone completely unrelated to the production... feels so *right* -- and then again, some of you may not.
the author, here a poet, is giovanni merloni and this poem is available in his work, which figures as part of his blog, his blog being, in its entirety, a piece of art that i've come to admire quite a lot, sometimes envy, and, occasionally, need: le portrait inconscient.
i am feeling beat up by a combination of ronsard, du bellay, and petrarch, were each of these great ones a jug of milk an hour away from turning rancid.
is love supposed to be so lonely, so fiercely unrequited that it mirrors an act of hatred? the only pictorial element to add to such a borrowed and out-of-time post as this one, une larme, seule, une larme, une larme seule. and not even mine, or even human, but une larme de pluie.
Quand on croit voir l’amour s’éloigner (1974-2013)