Morning Star Over Calabria

The man alone rises when the sea is still dark
and the stars waver. A warmth like a breath
drifts up from the shore, where the sea has its bed,
and sweetens each breath. This is the hour when nothing
can happen. Even the pipe that hangs from his teeth
has gone out. At night, the sea's a soft splashing.
The man alone is burning a pile of branches
and watching it redden the ground. The sea too,
before long, will be like a flame - it will blaze.


Nothing's more bitter than the dawn of a day
in which nothing will happen. Nothing's more bitter
than uselessness. A pale greenish star
hanging tired in the sky, surprised by the dawn,
looks down on the still-dark sea and the spot of fire
where the man, to do something, is warming himself.
It looks, as it's falling asleep in its bed of snow
in the gloom of the mountains. The slowness of time,
for a man ho knows nothing will happen, its brutal.

Is it worth the trouble for the sun to rise up
from the sea and begin the long day? Tomorrow
the warm dawn will return with its diaphanous light
and, just like yesterday, nothing will happen.
The man alone would like nothing more than to sleep.
When the last star has gone out in the sky,
the man slowly prepares his pipe and then lights it.