Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Besaquino
No stars to guide. Death is that quiet cartouche,
A nun-besought preserve of praying-time,
That like a great lion silence hunts,
At noon, at ease, and all because he must.
His scenery is so old,
His sacred pawtouch cold.
A lupercal of girls remember him
In nights defunct from lack of sleep
Tossing on iron beds awaiting dawn...
He wound up his death each evening like clock,
Walked to obscure cafés to criticise
The fires that blush upon the crown of Etna.
Leopardi in the ticking mind,
Lay unknown like an exiled king,
Printing his dreams among the olive glades
In orchards of discontent the fruitful word.
(from "Sicilian Carousel", 1977)
Besaquino
No stars to guide. Death is that quiet cartouche,
A nun-besought preserve of praying-time,
That like a great lion silence hunts,
At noon, at ease, and all because he must.
His scenery is so old,
His sacred pawtouch cold.
A lupercal of girls remember him
In nights defunct from lack of sleep
Tossing on iron beds awaiting dawn...
He wound up his death each evening like clock,
Walked to obscure cafés to criticise
The fires that blush upon the crown of Etna.
Leopardi in the ticking mind,
Lay unknown like an exiled king,
Printing his dreams among the olive glades
In orchards of discontent the fruitful word.
(from "Sicilian Carousel", 1977)