To his Heart
from Italian, “A se Stesso,” by Giacomo Leopardi
Be you quiet now, Thing.
The last lie you served me, I swallowed,
but it is gone now; stricken entirely.
The one thing I see is our hope exhausted,
our hunger for the illusion
that these surfaces will support
us, but also our hunger for their hardening
in the first place.
You work yourself up.
There is nothing worth all that beating,
and you spill care like blood; for what?
Life is always and only bitterness
and tedium. The world is mud.
Be quiet. Despair finally.
To us, to us all, Fate has left
only dying. Disprize then that nature,
the brutal power ruling this commune
of pain, and everything else which is vain.